


Fabrication

by Purseplayer



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purseplayer/pseuds/Purseplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine navigate a world where love is fabricated, longing for something real.  Unfortunately, true love comes at a heavy cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in my head for over a year now, and I'm so happy to finally be sharing it! Updates are currently planned for twice a week - probably Mondays and Fridays - and I welcome any and all feedback, including constructive criticism and questions :-) Rating may go up in future chapters. A huge thank you to my loyal beta, PurplePen!

_Part One – Age 5 – Richard_

His son’s small hand was clammy in his as Richard Anderson pulled him along, excitement and anxiety bleeding through every pore of his tiny body.

Or maybe the nerves were entirely Richard’s own.

It was a big day, perhaps the biggest of Blaine’s life.  Today they would order Blaine a Fab.

Richard had heard every argument in the book about the possible dangers of selecting Blaine’s mate when he was only five, and he had confidently dismissed every one of them.  Blaine was a special child—precocious, often giddy and unsettled, but also prone to emotional outbursts.  A Fab at his age would be a friend to him and, with any luck, tame his excitable nature.  They could grow up together, fall in love as the natural course of things.

He pushed open the door of the austere brick building, allowing Blaine to enter first but not letting go of his hand.  Richard caught his eye as they approached the secretary’s desk—a warning, and for once Blaine seemed to heed it obediently.  His posture straightened, and his free hand flew up to fiddle with his bowtie.

“Sir?” the secretary said, diverting his attention.

“Good morning,” Richard told her politely, offering the woman his friendliest smile.  “My name is Richard Anderson.  We’re here to order a Fab for my son, Blaine.”

“Ah yes,” the secretary beamed at Blaine before turning back to him.  “Mr. Anderson.  Mr. Vance is almost ready for you, Sir, if you’ll just have a seat.”

“Thank you.  Come along, Blaine.”

“Oh, wait!” the secretary stopped them, reaching for something hidden behind the desk and swiftly producing a basketful of lollipops.  “Would you like one?” she asked Blaine, her eyes on Richard as if seeking his approval.

Richard looked down at his son and nodded tersely.  It was far too early in the day for candy, but appearances must be maintained.  Blaine's face lit up in obvious delight, his hand twisting in his father’s as he reached out to select—predictably—a shiny red sucker from the basket.  “Later,” Richard mouthed to his son.  They both thanked the woman as Richard tugged him towards the waiting area, choosing a chair in the far corner and nodding again when Blaine’s eyes landed on a model car tucked away in a pile of toys.

Their wait was short; a door opened and a man in a neat grey suit appeared, smiling jovially as he scanned the room and caught Richard’s eye.  “Mr. Anderson!” he exclaimed, approaching and sticking out his hand for Richard to shake.  “Howard Vance.  Why, I think I remember you!  You brought your boy in, Cooper, was it?  I have a good mind for names.  That must have been more than five years ago now!”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Anderson said, taken aback by the man’s enthusiasm.  Now that he thought about it, he did recall leaving with a headache the last time they had met. 

Blaine was still absorbed with the car, and Richard was about to call for his attention when Mr. Vance took notice of him, moving closer until he was standing over the boy.

“It this one yours too?  Blaine, is it?  He’s awfully young!”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Richard said tightly, hoping he wouldn’t be called upon to defend his decision yet again.  If that happened, he would simply leave and take his business elsewhere. 

“Well,” Mr. Vance continued after a long moment, finally tearing his gaze away from Blaine, who had been watching him with trepidation.  “I have seen them younger.  Why don’t you both follow me?”

Blaine returned the car with obvious reluctance, trailing after his father into the man’s office.

“Now,” Mr. Vance said once they’d all taken seats, “why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you’d like, Blaine?”

Blaine looked at his father first, and Richard nodded, silently praying the boy didn’t say anything too embarrassing.  “I want…” Blaine began, trailing off uncertainly.  “I want someone to watch Disney movies with and go to plays like the fun ones Mommy takes me to with the singing.” 

Not exactly what Richard had been hoping for, but then again his son was only five.  “Musical aptitude and an appreciation of and talent for the arts,” he told Mr. Vance, who nodded and marked something on a sheet of paper.  “Go on, Blaine.”

Blaine looked deep in thought.  “I want them to be a good cook, like Mommy, but they have to like their peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles, not across!  And it would be cool if they could play with me on the playground and stuff, and maybe liked to play dolls and stuff too…”

Richard winced a little at that, but his son didn’t notice.  “Obviously we want someone who is intellectually gifted,” he said.  “Is there anything else, Blaine?”

“What do you want your partner to look like?” Mr. Vance prompted, studying Blaine intently.  The boy squirmed in his seat until a stern look from his father made him stiffen abruptly.

This was the part that Richard was most nervous about, but fortunately he’d come prepared for disaster.

“Like Prince Eric, you know, from _The Little Mermaid_ ,” Blaine answered easily.

Disaster like that.

Richard inhaled sharply, staring pointedly at the wall in front of him.  When he spoke, his voice was heavy with forced patience.  “Blaine, why don’t you go sit in the waiting room while I discuss some things with Mr. Vance?”

“Yessir,” Blaine said quickly, his eyebrows raising in alarm at the warning in his father’s voice. 

“Here, Blaine,” Mr. Vance said, handing him a piece of paper.  “I’m assuming that the boy can read?” he asked Richard, then continued once this was confirmed.  “It’s a personality profile sheet, but I gave him the version for children.  Once we’re finished speaking you can help him with it, if necessary. 

“That’s fine,” Richard said, then turned to his son.  “Well, go on, Blaine.”

The boy scurried out of his chair and through the door, shutting it behind him with an exaggerated click.  Once he was sure Blaine was gone, Richard stood and reached slowly for his wallet, Mr. Vance watching him with ill-concealed interest.

As he pulled out the old photo, Richard couldn’t help the rush of longing that surged within him.  Twenty years later, and she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  The pain was still sharp and fresh at the memory of how they’d been so cruelly ripped apart.  It had been another world back then, when Fabs were still new.  The government-mandated order forbidding natural matches had been a shock to nearly everyone. 

Stoically, Richard forced his emotions aside.  That was a matter of the heart, and his head knew better.  Society had thrived under the new system, and he couldn’t be happier with the Fab he’d selected for his wife.

Mr. Vance whistled when Richard showed him the picture.  “Wow, she’s quite a beauty; that’s for sure!”

“You think you can recreate that?”

“It’s an old picture, faded,” Mr. Vance said.  “It won’t be perfect, but we should be able to come close.”

Richard nodded.  “I, umm… I will get that back, won’t I?” he asked, indicating the photo.

“Of course, Mr. Anderson.  Good as new!”

“Great,” Richard said, feeling his body relax.  “Well, then, were there any other questions?”

Mr. Vance’s expression faded into something more serious.  “There is the matter of price…”

“That won’t be an issue,” Richard assured him.

“Lovely,” Mr. Vance declared, smile back in place.  “Unless there’s something else you wanted to specify, we’ll just need that form completed, then.”

“I’ll go help Blaine with it now.  Thank you for your time, Mr. Vance.”

“Certainly, it was my pleasure.”

When he left the office, Richard felt somehow emptier, as if the absence of the photograph he always carried in his pocket left a physical gap in its wake.

“Alright, Blaine,” he said, startling the small boy where he was curled in a seat, paper before him and eraser between his teeth.  “Let’s see if we can make sure you give all the right answers, son.”


	2. Burt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's confusing - each chapter is named after the character POV, but the age listed refers to Kurt or Blaine's age, whoever is relevant to the chapter. Please ask for clarification on anything if need be!

_Part Two – Age 8 – Burt_

Kurt woke up one morning and his mother was dead.  It was arguably the most horrible thing a child could experience.

It was worse for Burt.

The pain of losing his wife seemed insurmountable, this was true, but the consequences of her death… they loomed with the promise of something even more unthinkable.

A single Fab was not allowed to raise a child.

Thirty days—the span of time he had to find someone else, a new Nat who would be willing to take him and his eight-year-old son.  Days as thin as paper, as intangible as the wind.  A task that seemed more impossible than locating the proverbial needle in a haystack.

But Burt would do it; he had to for Kurt.

He posted ads in every paper within a fifty mile radius.  He placed his profile on every claiming site, even went to a few auctions out of desperation in the final week.  In his thirties and saddled with a child—even with his clean record and successful business—it was unsurprising that not a single woman showed interest.

Two days to go and he doggedly headed to the local Registry office, fully prepared to beg.

And there she was.

Full-figured with her auburn hair twisted into a messy bun, there was something about the woman that Burt found striking, even with the fat tears rolling down her rosy face. 

He didn’t speak as he approached, simply dug in his back pocket for the hanky he kept there out of habit and offered it up.  The woman peered up at him, her watery eyes large and glistening, and took it slowly, mopping up her face with a complete lack of decorum and then loudly blowing her nose while Burt watched her in silence.

“Thank you,” she said once she had composed herself.

Burt nodded.  “Of course.”

“I—“she cut off in a broken laugh, hiccupping through it.  “I’m sorry.  I’m a mess; I know.  It’s been that kind of day.”

“Well, we’ve all had ‘em,” Burt said.

“Yeah,” the woman agreed with another hiccup, pressing a hand flat to her chest and breathing deeply until, eventually, she appeared to regain some equilibrium.  “This one’s been a doozy.  My Fab—they took him for the army.  I guess he’s not coming home.”

Burt’s heart leapt in sympathy.  “I’m sorry.”

The woman chuckled wryly.  “Yeah.  I suppose I’ll be getting that a lot.”

A beat of silence.  “I lost my mate myself about a month back.  What with my boy and having to rush to find a new Nat and all… it’s been rough.”

“You’re a Fab,” the woman said in dead-pan, posture straightening in shock.  “You’re so put-together and you were alone I… I wouldn’t have guessed.”

This time, it was Burt who laughed nervously.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said immediately.  “That was rude.  I’m Carole Hudson.”

She stuck out her hand, and Burt shook it politely, their contact lingering.

“Burt.  Burt Hummel.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, and then Carole finally, abruptly pulled her hand away.

“I better be getting to my business,” Burt said.

“Of course.”

She moved aside, allowing Burt to enter the building.  He was tempted to look back over his shoulder one last time, but he didn’t.

*******

Burt’s efforts at the registry office unsurprisingly came to naught.  That night he cried himself to sleep for the first time in his life while Kurt slept, oblivious, in the next room over.  When he woke in the morning, he forced all he felt aside.

If this was the last day he would ever spend with his son, then he was going to make it a damn good one.

The sun was barely risen when he crept into Kurt’s room, watching him sleep for a good ten minutes before he grew too impatient and shook him awake.

“Hey buddy!  How do pancakes sound this morning?  You want to help your old man make ‘em?”

Kurt blinked bleary blue eyes and yawned, slowly sitting up.  “Blueberries?”

“Sure, if we’ve still got some of those frozen ones you always insist we buy.”

“Okay,” Kurt agreed, climbing out of bed and heading straight for his wardrobe.  “I’ll be downstairs in a bit.”

“You need some help?”  Burt watched Kurt sift through his clothing, all carefully hand-sewn and so different from what the other boys his age wore.  He already knew the answer.

Kurt turned to him and rolled his eyes.  “No, Dad, not from _you_.”

“Alright then,” Burt said, smiling even though he felt the sudden threat of tears.  “I’ll see you downstairs.”

******

They were halfway through stacks of blueberry pancakes, the kitchen still a disaster, when the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house.

“Who could that be?” Burt said.  “You expecting friends?”

Kurt frowned at him.  Come to think of it, it had been a couple of years since his son had had any friends over to their house save for Mercedes, who always and only came after church on Sundays. 

“Guess not.  I’ll go check it out.”

He pushed back from the table and made his way down the hall, feeling a little irritated when the bell chimed a second time.  When he swung open the door, however, his annoyance faded into confused shock.

“Carole?”

The woman smiled at him.  She looked more composed today and actually quite pretty—blue jeans and a matching jacket with a floral print blouse underneath, her hair down and styled and framing her face.  “In the flesh.  Can I… can I come in?”

“Uh, sure,” Burt said, stepping aside and gesturing into the house.  “Kurt—that’s my son—and I were just having pancakes, if you’d like some.”

“Pancakes sound great, actually.  Thank you.”

It was more than a little awkward leading Carole down the hall and into the kitchen, Kurt peering up at the stranger curiously as soon as they entered.  “Who’s she?” he asked, with all the tact that could be expected of a child his age.

Burt ignored him momentarily and instead pulled out the only other chair at their small, round dining table—the chair that had belonged to Elizabeth.  “Have a seat,” he told Carole, heading to the cupboard to grab her a plate and loading it with pancakes.

“I’m Carole,” she told Kurt.  “I’m a… a friend.  Of your father.”

Burt met her eyes and crooked an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, returning to the table and handing her the plate and a fork before turning back to his own food.

“How come I’ve never met you before?” Kurt asked.

Carole looked a bit stumped at that.  “Well, to be honest, your Dad and I just met yesterday.”

“Oh,” Kurt said.

“These pancakes are very good,” she said, directing the compliment at Kurt.  “Did you make them?”

Kurt finally cracked a smile.  “Dad and I both did.  He’s not much of a cook on his own.”

“Hey!” Burt exclaimed.  “I represent that remark!”

Kurt giggled, then leaned closer to Carole.  “He says that a lot.  He thinks he’s funny.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Burt said loudly.  “And you think it’s funny too; you always laugh!”

Kurt stuck his tongue out, and Burt mockingly returned the gesture.  “Such manners,” Carole said.  But she was smiling.

After they finished eating, Burt gathered their plates and took them to the sink.  “So Carole, why the visit?”  He tried to sound casual, but he knew it must be something important because showing up at the home of someone you ran into once was not normal.  And how did she know where they lived, anyway?

“Kurt, will you excuse us?” she asked.

Burt looked over at his son.  He looked surprised.

“Umm, sure,” Kurt agreed, looking to Burt.  “I’ll be in my room?”

“That’s fine, Kurt, thank you.”  As soon as he was gone, Burt rounded on Carole.  “I don’t appreciate you directing him like that.  How did you find us, anyways?”

“I went back the registry office a few hours after we met.  You were already gone.  I asked them about you.”

Burt scoffed.  “And they just told you everything?  That’s illegal.”

“I told them I wanted to claim you.”

  1.   Burt gripped the edge of the sink too-tight.



“Why would you do that?” he asked finally.  “That’s insane.  You don’t even know me.”

“I couldn’t get you out of my mind after I left.  What you said.  I realized afterward about the laws and… and what they meant.  You seemed like a decent guy.  I couldn’t let you lose your son.”

“I was a stranger,” Burt said, turning around to look at her.  “I… I am a stranger.”

“We’ll get to know each other in time,” Carole said gently.  She had finished her pancakes and pushed the plate aside.  “I can… I can show you the papers.”

He watched as she fumbled through her purse, finally pulling out a thick, folded white stack and handing it over.  Burt smoothed it out and scanned through it. 

“Looks official,” he said, fumbling for better words.

“It is.”

“I…”

Carole stood, walking over to him and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.  “It’s okay, Burt.  I know you’ll both need time.”

“Thank you,” Burt managed.  He had never before felt so overwhelmed with emotion, relief and gratitude and panic and anger all warring within him.  “We… we have a guest room.  Unless you’d like us to…”

“This place is much nicer, and bigger, than mine.”

Burt nodded.  “I’ll tell Kurt then.”

“Alright,” Carole said, offering him a soft smile.

*******

It took months—maybe years—before everything worked itself out.  Tantrums from Kurt, power struggles that turned into fights, hours of tentative negotiation that really needn’t have happened.  Legally, Carole held all the power over their lives.  But Carole was a good woman, a fair woman, and somewhere along the way Burt fell in love again.

Somewhere along the way they became a family.


	3. Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that may be wondering - there will be some Kurt/Finn and Blaine/Quinn in this story, including some minor physical stuff, because it's necessary for the plot. However, this is very much a Klaine story, no need to worry about endgame, and in time they *will* be featured most prominently :-)

_Part Three – Age 13 – Kurt_

_Eighth Grade_

Kurt couldn’t say exactly when it started.  He had always felt it, how he was somehow set apart, shunned, _different_ from his peers.  Somewhere along the way it morphed into jabs and taunts, then little shoves in the hallway, feet stuck out just far enough to make him trip and, eventually, slushies thrown in his face and daily stints in the dumpster and the kind of pushing around that left bruises and the occasional cut.

It didn’t bother him, really, beyond the damage to his wardrobe.

At least it didn’t until his dad found out.

Burt marched his way straight to the principal’s office, dragging Kurt behind him, and gave the man quite the earful.  Kurt didn’t even know the meanings of half the words his father used.

Principal Figgins pretended to listen politely, but Kurt recognized all too easily the nature of the smile plastered on his face.  “Are you the natural parent, Sir?” Figgins asked when Burt was forced to stop for air.

“No,” Burt answered, standing firm and proud, “but I am the only biological one.”

“I see.  I’m assuming you do have a Nat though?”

Burt gritted his teeth.  “I’d have to, wouldn’t I?”

Figgins’ smile widened, and he dug around in his filing cabinet for a moment, eventually producing a sheet of paper.  “Here,” he said, handing it to Burt.  “Give this to your Nat; she can fill it out and file a formal complaint.  The school board reviews them in the order they’re received.”

Burt snatched the paper from his grasp.  “So that’s it then?  My boy is being physically assaulted, and you’re just going to sit behind a desk and tell me to fill out a form?  You have an obligation to keep your students safe!”

“And we fulfill it,” Figgins said, the slightest hint of irritation leaking into his voice.  “My hands are tied, _Sir_.  I’m afraid there is protocol that must be followed, and you are currently in violation of it!”

Burt leaned forward over the principal’s desk, stopping inches from his face and slamming his fist down loudly on the wooden surface.  Figgins flinched.  “The thing is, I don’t give a damn about your protocol.”

“Dad,” Kurt said, stepping forward to grasp his father’s elbow and giving it a firm tug.  “We need to go.”

“Yeah,” Burt growled, finally giving ground.  “I figure there’s no one here to reason with.” 

Together, they turned and left the office.

“The Registry will be hearing about this!” Figgins called after them.

Burt paused, his body noticeably tensing.  For the first time in his young life, Kurt was tempted to give someone the finger.

*******

Three months later—the appropriate forms long submitted and presumably ignored—found Kurt’s family in much the same boat.

“I don’t know what to do, Carole,” Kurt overheard his father saying to his mate.  “I can’t keep sending him back there.  Not when they treat him like this.  And we can’t afford a private school.”

“Maybe we can help him,” Carole suggested.  “Figure out why they treat him so poorly and see if he can’t just… _adjust_ his behavior to something more acceptable.”

“I can’t believe you just said that!  My son has every right to be exactly who he is—it’s those other asshole kids who need an adjustment!”

“Of course he should be who he is!” Carole said, her voice gentle but defensive.  “I wasn’t meaning… it’s just… his clothes, Burt.  They’re a little… out there.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his clothing!” Burt retorted.  He paused, then continued more softly, “He makes them himself.  His mother taught him how.”

“Maybe he could make something a bit more mainstream….”

Something clattered loudly, and suddenly his father’s voice sounded much closer.  “I’m not having this conversation with you.  My son does _not_ need to change!”

“Burt, be reasonable…”

“No, Carole.  I’m done.”

A door slammed closed, and Kurt sat very still in his bed, listening intently.  A few minutes later, his door cracked open, and Burt stepped into his room.

“Hey, Buddy!  I wanted to say goodnight!”

“Dad,” Kurt said, finding his father’s eyes in the darkness.  “I heard you.”

He could barely make it out, but Burt’s face fell into an unmistakable frown.  “That’s… that’s not for you to worry about, Kurt.”

“Dad,” Kurt repeated, placing heavier emphasis on the word.  “You were fighting about me.”

Silence fell between them, and then Burt was moving closer, seating himself on the edge of Kurt’s bed.  “Carole and I are fine, okay?  This is just… it’s just a tough situation for all of us, Buddy, and neither of us know what to do.  We both hate seeing you hurting like this.”

“I don’t mind so much,” Kurt said, speaking carefully so his words were even, “about the clothes.  Carole’s… Carole’s right.  I do think that’s why they… why they don’t like me.”  He stared down at his quilt, picking at threads he couldn’t see with his fingers.

“No.” Burt said firmly.  “No, we’re going to find a better way.  They shouldn’t care what you wear, Kurt.  They should care who you are.  And you’re a pretty damned good kid, if I do say so myself.”

Kurt smiled at his father’s praise.  “You really think so?”

Burt nodded.  “Course I do,” he said seriously.  “I did raise you, after all.”

Kurt giggled, breaking off when he felt his father’s hand cupping the side of his face.  “It’s late; you should be asleep.  Get some rest now.”

Kurt wriggled down under the covers obediently.  “Yes Sir.”

“Goodnight, Kurt.  I love you.”

“Love you too.”

His eyes squeezed shut, Kurt allowed the fading sound of his father’s heavy footsteps to lull him to sleep.

*******

Kurt didn’t hear Burt and Carole talking about the matter again, but a week later his parents made him stay back with them in the living room after dinner.

“Kurt.  Carole and I have been brainstorming.  We have an idea we want to propose to you.”

“We’re very worried about your safety at school, honey.  And there’s not much your teachers will do about it, and we can’t afford to send you somewhere else, so we thought it might be good if you had someone else who could go there with you, help watch your back.”

“Someone else?” Kurt repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“It’s not a perfect solution,” Carole admitted.  “But it may be the best we’ve got.”

“I don’t understand,” Kurt said.  “Who is there to come to school with me?  How is that even possible?”

His father leaned forward in his armchair, placing his hand over Kurt’s where it rested on his knee.  “Your mother and I started saving up the day you were born,” Burt said softly.  “Every week, like clockwork.  Carole has been kind enough to allow it to continue.”

“Save up,” Kurt echoed in deadpan.  “Save up for what?”

“We wanted you to have a custom Fab when you came of age.  So you could avoid the auctions, have a mate that really suited you.”

Kurt gasped.  “Dad…”

“Now, we won’t be able to afford that at the age you are now,” Burt continued.  “This is much sooner than planned.  But you could choose someone from the factories, certainly.”

“I—“ Kurt paused, breathing deeply and willing the rapid beat of his heart to slow.  “I don’t know what to say.  How can we afford to keep him?”

“That’s all worked out,” Carole said.  “The hospital’s allowing me to pick up an extra shift each week.  It’ll be enough.”

“And I expect both of you to help out at the shop on the weekends and in the summer,” Burt added.

“Wow.  Dad, Carole, I…”

“Is that a yes?” his father prodded hopefully.

Kurt closed his eyes.  As Carole had said, it wasn’t the perfect solution… but it was everything he had dreamed of for so long, and he was getting it _now_.

He opened them, considering his father and Carole in turn.

“Yes.”

*******

The building was indistinguishable from any other factory Kurt had ever seen—humongous, rectangular, constructed of faded, rusty blue aluminum.  They entered into a block of offices, a stark contrast to the building’s exterior.

The hallway was empty, but it was only a few moments before a man appeared who looked to be in his thirties.  His dress was appropriate for a business man, but sloppy, causing Kurt to wrinkle his nose.  A crooked nametag read _Dave: Manager_.

“Ms. Hudson?” the man questioned, sticking his hand out towards Carole, ignoring Burt and Kurt completely.

She frowned at him but shook his hand regardless.  “Yes.  And this is my mate, Burt, and our son, Kurt.  He’s the one who needs the Fab.”

“Right,” the man said, finally looking over to Kurt.  “Well, we make them at infant and ages five, ten, fifteen and twenty.”

“I’d like a fifteen year-old, I think,” Kurt told him, glancing at his father for confirmation.  Burt nodded.  “A male, please.”

The man’s expression never faltered.  “Right,” he said again.  “Follow me.”

They followed ‘Dave’ through a door at the end of the hallway that led to a wider corridor, and then through a set of larger double doors that opened into the main body of the factory.  Kurt gasped.  Before him stretched rows and rows of _people_ , each standing stiff as a soldier with a little plaque set before them.  Dave directed them off to the right another twenty yards or so, then stopped.  “These five rows are our fifteen-year-old males.  If you don’t see anything you like, we have additional options in our catalogue available for order.  Certain upgrades are available too, but I doubt you could afford them on your budget.”

Burt looked about ready to club the man, but Carole put him off of it with a single look.  He settled for grunting instead.  “Go ahead, Buddy,” he said to Kurt.

Kurt took a deep breath and slowly started down the first row.

There were boys of every imaginable size and coloring, all looking polished and perfectly fit.  Kurt paused in front of a blonde boy with beautiful deep sea-green eyes, then again before a tallish Fab with adorable thick black curls.  So many of the options were appealing, and then again they creeped him out—their limbs unmoving, their eyes unseeing, and yet it felt as though they were peering into his very soul.

“How do I choose?” he whispered to his father.

Burt’s hands closed over his shoulders, squeezing gently.  “Best I can say is just go with your gut.”

“Consider what you want,” Carole offered.  “What’s important to you?  The cards should tell you a little about them.”

“Actually,” Dave said, “our models come pretty standard internally.  They all have average intelligence and an equal aptitude for personal development, learning, and interests—they’ll adapt to what their Nat wants and also to the environment around them.”

“Oh,” Carole said.  “Well then, Kurt—pick the most handsome!”  She winked at him but he barely managed to smile in return, still nervous and unsure.

“So I can teach them to, say, like music?” Kurt asked.

“Certainly, to an extent.  He should learn to perform admirably, but real talent would require an upgrade in musical aptitude.”

Kurt nodded.  “Alright, I think I understand.”

He continued to peruse the options, the others trailing behind him.  He paused several times before models he found particularly attractive, but none of them were _it_.  Then again, he wasn’t sure exactly what _it_ wouldbe.

Until he saw him.

The boy was handsome enough, yes, but compared to many of the others he was unremarkable in every way… except for his size.  He gave the impression of _safe_ , and safe, Kurt realized suddenly, was what he most wanted to be.

“This one,” Kurt said, feeling absolutely certain.  “I want this one.”  Brown hair, brown eyes, and at fifteen already nearing the six-foot mark, Kurt could tell.  “Will he get taller?”

“It’s quite possible, yes.  At this age most of our models continue to grow for another few years.”

Kurt nodded, pleased with the information.

“We’d like him to go to school with Kurt,” Burt said, drawing the salesman’s reluctant attention.  “Is he gonna be able to keep up?”

“As I mentioned, all our models have average intelligence—advanced intelligence is possible, but it’s a very pricy upgrade,” Burt’s eyes narrowed at this, but he thankfully remained silent, and the man continued.  “He’ll be perfectly capable of keeping up in school, and we program them with the knowledge they’ll need to match a given grade free of charge.”

“Eighth grade,” Burt said tersely.

“Very well.”

“Will he…” Kurt stopped mid-sentence and flushed, looking at the ground and then at his father.  “Will he like me?”

The adults were puzzled for a moment, and it was Carole who first figured it out.  “Oh!” she said, startled, then turned to Dave.  “He wants to know if his Fab will be attracted to him,” she clarified gently.

“Once they’re chosen, our Fabs are programmed to respond to the gender of choice.  It won’t be more specific than that, but we do attune them to you.  He’ll feel a level of attachment to you, as your Fab.”

“Great,” Kurt said, blushing more deeply, relieved.

“Are there any other questions?” Dave prompted.  No one spoke again, and for the first time that afternoon, the salesman cracked a smile.  “Good.  If you’ll come back to my office, I’ll have you fill out the order form and we’ll get you out the door.  Your order should be ready within two weeks.  Would you like him to be activated before delivery?”

He directed his question towards Kurt, who considered him blankly.

“He means do you want him to be… animated… before he comes to the house, or would you like to do it yourself?” Carole explained.

“Oh.  Umm, activated first, please.  It’s a little creepy, seeing them like this.”  Kurt shuddered, and the four made their way out of the display room and into Dave’s much more comfortable office.

*******

Finn (Kurt had meant to choose a meaningful name, but clicking through the internet this one had jumped out at him) arrived two weeks later in a blue zip-up hoodie and baggie jeans—clothes the man accompanying him assured Kurt he had chosen himself. 

“Sign here,” he said, handing the clipboard to Carole, who passed it to Kurt.  Kurt almost missed the line, he was so busy staring.

The man nodded at them once the clipboard was returned to him and gave Carole a thick packet of information.  “Warranty stuff is in there.  It’s good for a year.”

Carole thanked the man, who smiled politely in return, and then he was gone, and Finn was standing there looking very much like a lost, oversized puppy.

“Finn?” she said, apparently realizing that Kurt was in no condition to speak.  “Why don’t you come inside, sweetie, get something to eat?  I’m Carole.”  She held out her hand to him and he stared at it, bemused, before taking it and shaking it as expected.  She stepped back and gestured into the house, and Finn finally walked inside, taking in his surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Carole’s hand closed around Kurt’s wrist, tugging him forward until he was right at Finn’s side.  “This is Kurt,” she said kindly.  “He’s your Nat.”

“Kurt,” Finn repeated, all his attention re-focused in an instant.  Kurt swallowed thickly.

“Hi,” he all but squeaked out.

“Burt, Kurt’s father, lives here too, but he won’t be home until dinnertime,” Carole said.  “Why don’t you come to the kitchen and I’ll fix you some lunch?  Then Kurt can show you to where you’ll be sleeping.”

“Sure, thank you,” Finn said, still staring at Kurt.

Kurt didn’t know what to think, what to feel, and least of all what to do.  He’d never been so overwhelmed before in his life.  But when he finally regained enough control of his body to move, putting one foot in front of the other until somehow he was following Carole, Finn trailed along obediently behind him.  It would have to do for now.


	4. Blaine

_Part Four – Age 13 – Blaine_

_Eighth Grade_

It wasn’t as easy as it looked, being Blaine Anderson.

He had always been the envy of his peers.  A wealthy father, a popular, well-known older brother, a Fab of his own since he’d first started grade school.  Everyone thought his life was perfect.  Everyone wanted to be his friend.

But Blaine knew the truth.  Blaine didn’t have any real friends except for Quinn.  They were all smiles and jokes and favors to his face, but Blaine heard the ridicule they’d whisper when they didn’t think he could hear.  The rich boy.  The snob.  Why, he was just too good for anyone, wasn’t he?

But that wasn’t the worst of it.  Not by far.

By middle school, a few more of his classmates had acquired Fabs of their own.  Peter and Andrew, in particular, were eager to ingratiate themselves by means of shared experience.  They would regularly corner him at recess to talk about their Fabs and ask for his advice.

“So Blaine, you’ve had yours for years now… how do you get ‘em to, you know, let you touch?”

“You don’t need permission, Drew.  Something must be wrong with yours.  Rita lets me feel her up, no problem.  And if they don’t want it… well, then you just take it, right?  I mean, she is yours.”

The problem was that Blaine had never done any of that with Quinn.  Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, his father had taken Blaine aside and given him The Talk.  Blaine had known about sex by then, of course, had wondered secretly what the fuss was all about.  His father’s advice just confused him further, made him feel pressured to feel all these things he simply didn’t.  Was something wrong with him?

Nearly a year later, the box of condoms his dad had gifted him with a knowing wink still sat in his drawer unopened.  Cooper had found them a few months back, had ruffled his hair affectionately.  “Just a late bloomer, aren’t ya Blainey?”

Apparently he was.

Well, so much for that!

*******

His mother and father were at yet another dinner party, his brother and his Fab, Cassandra, at a _party_ , and that left Blaine and Quinn with the house to themselves.

Blaine found her in her room, sprawled out on her stomach on the bed with a book.  Typical Friday night.

“Whatcha reading, Quinn?” he asked, climbing up beside her and mimicking her posture.

Quinn hummed.  “It’s new, called _The Hunger Games_.  You should read it.  You wouldn’t believe the things they do to these kids!”

“Sure,” Blaine said.  “But… can it wait?  I kind of made us dinner.”

Quinn turned to look at him, a horrified expression on her face.  “No pizza tonight?”

“Umm… no,” Blaine said, feeling his face heat at her predictable reaction.  Pizza was Quinn’s favorite food, and with his parents gone in the evenings more often than not, it had become a weekly tradition.  “But I made brownies!”

“Hmmph,” Quinn said, still frowning.  “ _Maybe_ I could forgive you for brownies.”

“Come eat with me?”  Blaine pleaded, using his best puppy-dog eyes.

Quinn sighed, closing her book.  “I suppose the slaughter can wait…”

Blaine beamed at her and all but jumped off the bed, making a beeline for the door.  Quinn rolled her eyes and followed in a much more lady-like fashion.

When they reached the dining room she froze on the spot, her eyes widening.  “Wow, Blaine.  What’s all this?”

Blaine blushed and shuffled his feet, his fingers playing absentmindedly with his bowtie.  “It’s… umm… it’s dinner?”  He’d set the table as best he knew how with his mother’s china and found some candles from last Thanksgiving in the cupboard.  Blaine hoped she wouldn’t mind when they came up missing.

“It’s beautiful,” Quinn said in a breath, stepping forward.  Blaine hastened over to pull out her chair.  He’d spent a lot of time memorizing this from the movies, and he was determined to get it right.  “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh.  I… I just thought it would be nice.”

Quinn smiled at him as she settled in her seat, smoothing the pleats of her skirt.  “So what are we having?”

“Chicken fingers and mashed potatoes and salad,” Blaine answered, a little embarrassed.  “I’m sorry… it’s all I know how to make.”

Quinn didn’t quite manage to stifle a giggle.  “That’s okay; I like that.”

“Good,” Blaine said.  “I’ll just go get it then.”

He returned with their food, already plated, and they sat down together to eat, Blaine prompting Quinn to tell him more about her book (which did sound really, really interesting.)  They’d shared meals a million times before, and maybe it was just his nerves, but while their conversation flowed as easily as ever, something about this meal felt different. 

His palms began to sweat as their plates emptied.

“I… do you want dessert now?” he asked Quinn when she was finished.  “Or… I had something else in mind.”

Quinn looked amused.  “I’m full.  It was very good by the way, thank you.  What else were you thinking?”

Blaine stood shakily and offered her his hand.  “Come with me?”

Quinn curled her delicate fingers into his with an easy, pleased smile.  Blaine led her into the living room, abandoning her in the middle of the floor while he fiddled with the entertainment center.  Soon music filled the air—classical stuff that wasn’t usually Blaine’s taste, but his parents seemed to love it, and he knew Quinn did too.  “Dance with me?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Sure,” Quinn said, her face glowing prettily in a blush.

Neither of them really knew how to dance—not like this, anyway—but they fumbled through it together with minor damage to anyone’s toes.  Blaine’s heart beat faster with every passing moment, his body tensing.  How was he going to do this?

“Blaine, you’re all tense,” Quinn observed.  “Is something wrong?”

“No!” he answered, too-quickly.  “It’s nothing; it’s just… I’m trying to kiss you.”

“What?” Quinn’s movement halted so suddenly that Blaine almost tripped.

“I’m… I just… I mean, I don’t want to do it wrong!”

“Well, you needn’t have gone through all this fuss,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.  Her voice softened.  “I’ve been wondering… when you would.”

 Blaine stared at her.  Her lips looked soft, pink, and yeah, he was curious but…

“Why don’t you just do it already?” Quinn said, hands on her hips.

So Blaine did.

It was simple, nice, anti-climatic, and Blaine felt really stupid for having worried so much over something so easy.  He lingered for a few moments, then pulled back.  Quinn’s eyes were closed; he could hear her breathing in little puffs.

“Quinn?” he prompted, hoping he hadn’t done something wrong.

Her eyes opened, and then she rushed forward, joining their lips again.

This kiss wasn’t so simple.  Quinn’s mouth moved against his so Blaine followed with it, daring to flick his tongue out against her lips just to see.  But when she began to open her mouth, little by little, Blaine drew away.

“Okay?” he said, feeling mostly relief that it was over with.

“A little more than okay, I’d say,” Quinn offered, cheeks flushing even darker.

Blaine smiled and took her hand.  “Let’s just dance some more?” he suggested.

Quinn shook her head playfully.  “Nope.  Maybe later.  I want some of those brownies!”

*******

Blaine’s fourteenth birthday party, like all the birthday parties he’d had before, was crowded with nearly every kid he’d ever met, and very few that Blaine actually liked.  Wes and David were there—sons of Blaine’s father’s friends whom Blaine would be going to high school with come autumn.  He had spoken with them a few times before, and they were alright.  Blaine really hoped that with the new school year he could maybe, finally, make some real friends.

As it was, he sat off to the side with Quinn, who once again had her nose buried in a book.  His mother had already asked her once to put it away and “socialize,” but Blaine’s father had objected, pointing out that education was more important, and wasn’t it great that Quinn had shaped up to be such a smart, proper young Fab?

  1.   Blaine was beginning to hate the word.  Outside of his home, it was starting to seem more like an excuse to treat someone badly, as less than a person.  He knew he would never, could never, treat Quinn that way.



He watched the guests as they arrived and were greeted by his mother.  Blaine knew she would prefer him to greet them with her, but by now his hatred for these sorts of parties was no secret, and his parents had reluctantly agreed to tolerate his attitude so long as he kept a smile pasted on his face and treated everyone cordially.  It’s not like they had a way to force him to comply, anyways.

Most everyone was here by now, Blaine noted, scanning the yard and taking quick count of his classmates and his parents' friends' children.  Thirty-two puberty-ridden adolescents were in attendance, not counting himself and Quinn.  Nearly a third of them were Fabs.  Only about five guests yet to arrive, then.

He glanced back at his mother to find her leading yet another girl through the patio door.  Angela—he recognized her from class.  She was a shy girl, quiet and kind, one of the few that Blaine could see himself being real friends with if she ever came out of her shell.

But she wasn’t the one who captured his attention.

Trailing behind her was a boy Blaine had never seen before.  Had Angela gotten herself a Fab?  He was tall, taller than Blaine for sure.  His blonde hair was unremarkable, but even from this distance Blaine was struck by the dazzling blue of his eyes, standing out amongst his handsome features.

Quinn had never felt quite right—not like Blaine knew she was supposed to—but it wasn’t until just now he’d found something that did.

 _Someone_ who did.

It felt like he’d been frozen, like he was made of marble and someone had come along and tapped him carefully on the head, and suddenly the surface of him chipped away.  He’d known this, somewhere.  Even at five years old, when his father had taken him to the Fabrication company.  It was one of his earliest memories.  _Like Prince Eric_.  But he’d forced it down, told himself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t important.

He tore his eyes away from the boy to look back over at Quinn.  She hadn’t noticed him staring.  His heart hurt for her, for himself, and he decided it in that moment.

He’d hold onto this, keep it safe within him.  But Quinn could never know.

 _Happy Birthday_ , he thought, forcing himself to his feet, forcing himself to enter into the fray and interact in this empty place, with these empty people that made up his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid posting won't resume for at least another week after this due to my need to edit and, well, write more. I'm truly sorry. Reviews are always motivating! ;-)


	5. Mercedes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks, RL has been a challenge lately! This chapter isn't very long, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. In the next part Kurt and Blaine *finally* meet. Took me long enough, I know ;-)

_Part Five – Age 14 – Mercedes_

_Freshman Year_

Mercedes was one of three children—an older brother, a younger sister.  It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t common either.  Since the introduction of Fabs most families stuck to one or two children per government recommendation.  But she loved her family, even though it was taxing at times to be the middle child.  She had never cared much for meeting the status quo.

Maybe that was why Kurt had caught her eye at only four years of age.  Even then—even among typically complacent, accepting preschool children—Kurt stood out.  Kurt was different.

Mercedes wanted to be different, too.  She wanted to shine.  And yeah, maybe Kurt hadn’t turned out to be the right kind of different to help her reach that goal, but he was the best friend she’d ever known, and damn if she was going to let him go.  They’d been sent to different elementary schools, and still they had stuck together—through lost pets (Mercedes’ Yorkie,) dead parents (Kurt’s mother) and bullying.

And then, at only thirteen, Kurt got a Fab.  It was the first thing that almost broke them.

Mercedes’ father was a dentist—a careful, practical man who sincerely wanted the best for his children, but didn’t much care to take their own opinions into consideration as to what, precisely, the best _was_.  Each of his offspring had savings accounts that he added to every month religiously so that when they reached the age of eighteen, they could order themselves a custom Fab.

No sooner.  No arguments.

So when she showed up at Kurt’s house on an ordinary Sunday and was, seemingly out of the blue, introduced to _Finn_ , she wasn’t quite sure how she was meant to react.  Finn didn’t say much—probably because he was still so new—but he was tall, handsome, and Mercedes could see why Kurt had picked him.  She could even see why Kurt’s parents had encouraged it, because yeah, Finn looked like he could take out a linebacker.

But it didn’t stop the way she felt.  Five years seemed a lot longer to wait when your best friend suddenly and unexpectedly had the very thing you wanted most, something and someone of their very own, a place to _belong_. 

Mercedes had never really had anything she could call her own.

She tried to hide her feelings, really she did, but now every moment she spent with Kurt, _he_ was there too.  They say Fabs adapt to their owners, but it was obvious from the very start that Finn didn’t understand about things like fashion or boys or musicals.  He didn’t seem to like having his nails painted, showed a clear preference for plain clothing over the more flamboyant articles Kurt tried to sew for him, and would rather spend his time watching sports with Burt or fixing cars in the shop than gossiping and flipping through magazines.  He wasn’t unkind about it; he really tried to make Kurt happy, and Kurt was good to him in return.  They had formed a bond despite their glaring differences, and it was this, oddly enough, that made Mercedes more envious than the rest.  Who did she have who would look past all the ways she was different—her weight, her diva-esque attitude, her penchant for all that was glitzy and glamorous—and love her in spite of it?

Eventually she snapped, fed up with the awkward way Finn would stare past the television screen, look down at his hands every few minutes when he forgot he was supposed to be watching until Kurt reminded him, and he’d resolutely try again.

“Kurt, why don’t you just let the poor boy be?  It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate _State Fair_!  Hell, even I think this musical is boring; it’s old as the hills!”

Kurt looked startled for a moment, glancing at Finn carefully to gauge his reaction, but he was again staring down, avoiding Kurt’s eyes.  “Finn’s fine,” Kurt declared at last.  “And what is with you lately, anyways?  We’re trying to learn the duet, but if you don’t care to watch you’re free to leave!”

It wasn’t the first time they’d sniped at each other, not by any means, but it was the first time Mercedes felt prepared to let it go somewhere.

“Maybe I will,” she said stubbornly.  “Being home is sure better than playing third fiddle to your pathetic little love affair.”

Kurt gasped then, tears springing to his eyes.  “I can’t believe you just said that!”

“Yeah, well,” Mercedes looked away from him as a pang of regret shot through her.  “Somebody needed to.”

“You’re supposed to be my friend,” Kurt retorted, raising his chin in the air even as his voice trembled.  “If you don’t care to be then really—get out.  Finn and I will be just fine on our own.”

“Fine then!” Mercedes said just as mulishly, grabbing her purse and marching to the bedroom door.  “But don’t expect me to come back!”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Kurt shouted, then turned back to the TV, a clear dismissal, and Mercedes headed downstairs to call her mom.  Luckily Carole didn’t ask any questions, watching her with sympathy as she waited on the couch for her ride.

She called Kurt three days later.  “I’m sorry,” she confessed, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.  “I’m… I’m jealous, Kurt.  That you have Finn.  I get why you needed him but it’s just that I don’t get to have that until after high school and it just seems like forever right now and I’m just… I’m sorry,” she finished lamely.

Kurt sighed on the other end of the phone.  “It’s alright.  I’m sorry too.  And… you know, ‘Cedes… Finn isn’t you.  He can’t replace you.  And someday you’ll have a Fab too, and then it can be the four of us and things will be easier; you’ll see.  And maybe… maybe next Sunday I’ll let Finn help dad at the shop for a bit.”

“That would be nice,” Mercedes said, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her.  “I really miss you, Boo.  I think we need some quality time.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agreed.  “That sounds perfect.  So… things will be better.”

“Yep,” Mercedes answered him.  “And next year they’ll _really_ be better.  Let me tell you what happened to my brother in gym class today…”

Things did get better between them, especially, as predicted, the following Fall when they were finally, _finally_ at the same school.  Unfortunately, aside from that and Glee club—which they both joined—ninth grade pretty much sucked.

It took Mercedes a while to see it, but eventually she had to admit… maybe it sucked for Kurt a little bit more.

Finn was well-liked for a Fab, particularly after joining the football team, and when he was around no one messed with Kurt, and if they did Finn put a stop to it.  But sometimes he had different classes.  Sometimes he wasn’t there and when that happened, Kurt paid.

It was little things.  Taunts and shoves and the occasional threat, mostly from other jocks.  Mercedes tried to talk to her friend about it, tried to get Kurt to go to Finn, explain what was happening behind his back, but Kurt always brushed her off.

“It’s nothing, ‘Cedes,” he would tell her, smiling faintly.  “Really, I’m fine.  You should… you should see what it used to be like, before Finn.  I’m lucky now.  I have him, and I have you.”

“And Glee club,” Mercedes pointed out, even though she knew that the club, too, was yet another place where Kurt had to fight to be heard, to _matter_.  Some days she wanted to punch Rachel Berry in the face for her own sake, but most days she wanted to punch the diva for Kurt.

“Yeah,” Kurt agreed, “and Glee club.”  He looped their arms together and began to guide her down the hallway, talking excitedly about the sales the mall was having the coming weekend, and it was easy to go along with it.

It was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong, to buy Kurt’s lies and phony smiles.  Kurt had always been a complex person, so it took some time for Mercedes to pinpoint what exactly it was her friend was feeling—something basic and human and raw.  Kurt was _sad_.

Somehow, Mercedes had to get him to talk.  It wasn’t going to be easy; she would have to approach it in the right way.

It took months, but then one week they were watching _The Notebook_ —a popular movie about a rich girl who fell in love with a poor boy the summer before her father was meant to order her a Fab—and Kurt, rather predictably, started to cry.

“That’s just how life is, Mercedes, isn’t it?” he ranted halfway through the film.  “You think you’ve found a good thing but somehow it never lasts; life is never quite what you expected.  I know this will end well, but it’s a movie… real life never works that way.”

“Kurt,” Mercedes said softly.  This could be it: her moment to get through to him.  She grabbed the remote from where it rested on the floor between them and paused the movie, turning to give him her full attention.  “Something’s wrong, and it has been for a while.  You wanna talk about it?”

Kurt sighed, his whole body heaving with it, and his chin began to tremble as the tears came anew.  “Things with Finn… they… they aren’t what I hoped.”

“Okay,” Mercedes said, reaching to cover his hand with her own.

“We got him to help protect me, you know that, and… he does, or at least he does his best.  But I don’t know; I guess when I picked him I expected… they told me he would like me, that he would come to be more like me, and we just haven’t… connected that way?  I know he loves me, but sometimes it feels like our relationship is such a burden to him.  I can’t… I can’t make him happy, Mercedes.”

“Oh Kurt…”

“And then I thought—and I know this is stupid—but I thought that once I got a Fab, that my life would magically get better.  Like maybe I’d make more friends, and people would start to like me, and I’d feel like I… belonged, somewhere.  But I don’t.  Nothing’s changed; I’m still just that weird kid that nobody understands.”  He pulled his hand away from hers, wiped furiously at his eyes.

“I understand.  Or at least I try to, Kurt.”

Kurt offered her a watery smile.  “I know.  And I appreciate you so much, Mercedes, really I do.  It’s just… I still want more.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “I know it’s stupid to want things you can’t have, but I can’t help it.”

“You’ll have more,” Mercedes said confidently.  “We both will someday.  It just takes time.  Eventually we’ll be adults, and things will get better.  We’ll make it better.  You’ll be a famous fashion designer, or on Broadway, or whatever, and I’ll be on the radio.  We’ll show all of them!”

“Yeah,” Kurt said, beaming now through his tears.  “That sounds perfect.”

Mercedes sighed and turned to face the TV.  “High school sucks.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agreed.

“So you want to make some brownies before we finish crying over the movie?”  She didn’t know about Kurt, but chocolate _always_ lifted her spirits.

“That sounds perfect!  With nuts though… and caramel!”

Mercedes knew there was a reason Kurt was her best friend.

As they made their way down to the kitchen, Mercedes thoughts drifted back to their conversation.  Maybe, just maybe, having a Fab was more complicated than she’d ever realized.  Maybe waiting a few years wouldn’t be so bad.

Maybe age eighteen really wasn't too far off after all.


	6. Kurt

_Part Six – Age 15 – Kurt_

_Fall, Sophomore year_

On Kurt’s first day of sophomore year there was a new boy at school.  Kurt wouldn’t normally notice except that the boy was _everywhere_ , in half of Kurt’s classes and in the hallways between them, a few steps in front of Kurt in the lunch line, standing at the front of the classroom in Glee after school, beaming with Mr. Shue’s hand clasping his shoulder.

“Everybody, this is Blaine Anderson, and his Fab, Quinn.”  Mr. Shue nodded towards a gorgeous blonde girl tucked away in the corner, who offered a less-than-enthusiastic smile and a tiny wave.  Blaine, though, perked up, almost bouncing on the toes of his shoes.

“Hi, everyone.  I… umm, yeah, I’m Blaine.  I’ve transferred in this year from Dalton—I’m a sophomore—and I was in their Glee club, so I’m really excited to be a part of yours.”

Mr. Shue looked thrilled, but half the rest of the room seemed skeptical.  Rachel wore a half-grimace, Jesse, her Fab, was outright glaring, and even Finn looked a little wary.  “How about you sing for us?  Too soon?”

“Next class?” Blaine suggested, looking to Quinn, who nodded curtly.  “We’ll do a duet.”

“We’re all looking forward to it,” Mr. Shue told him.  “Please, take a seat.  Rachel, Jesse?  I believe you two had something prepared?”

Kurt groaned, and Mercedes—sitting beside him—grimaced.  Their eyes met in sympathy, Mercedes rolling hers dramatically.  She mouthed _hell to the no_ , and Kurt nodded in agreement.

The rest of the meeting passed quickly, mostly full of Mr. Shue’s standard this-is-going-to-be-our-year! pep talk, and Kurt spent most of it watching Blaine.  The boy was so many contradictions—quiet and loud, lively and restrained, blending in and set apart—and Kurt ached with how badly he wished to know him, to mean something, _anything_ , in his life.  It was not an altogether foreign feeling for him, except that this time, there was hope.  Something in his gut told him that friendship with Blaine might be attainable, that Blaine might be different than so many others who had rejected him in the past.

He lingered after practice, shooing Mercedes away and making up some excuse so she’d leave without him, sending Finn a pointed look when he glanced at Kurt in confusion every few seconds while engaged in a conversation with Puck and Sam, both of whom played with him on the football team.  Blaine had stayed back too—chatting amiably with Mike and his Nat, Tina—and Kurt didn’t even realize he was staring as the room emptied out until Mr. Shue called his name, asking if he needed him for something, and all Kurt could offer was a shake of his head and a shrug.

“I never realized Blaine was so fascinating,” an amused voice said from behind him, and he spun around to find Quinn standing there, watching him with an unreadable expression on her face.  “He gets boring after a while; I promise.”

Kurt felt heat rising to his face.  “Oh, I… I was waiting to talk to Tina.”

Quinn shrugged, and Kurt wondered if she believed him.  “Blaine’s very friendly, you know.  If you want something from him, just ask.  He doesn’t bite.”

Kurt opened his mouth to reply—with what he wasn’t sure—when Quinn muttered _“speak of the devil.”_

“Hey, guys!” Blaine still looked overly cheerful as he approached them, immediately turning to Kurt and offering his hand.  “I’m Blaine,” he said as Kurt shook it.

“Yeah, I… I remember.”

Blaine merely raised an amused eyebrow at him.  “Oh… Kurt,” he supplied, remembering himself and abruptly dropping Blaine’s hand.  What was it with his reaction to this guy, anyways?

“It’s nice to meet you, Kurt,” Blaine said politely, ignoring Kurt’s awkward fumbling.  “I see you met Quinn.”

“Yeah.  She’s very… nice.  I… I have a Fab too.  Finn,” he said, gesturing to where the taller boy was watching them from across the room. 

“Really?” Blaine’s face brightened impossibly.  “Well, then, we’ll have to all go out together sometime, won’t we Quinn?”

“Sure,” Quinn agreed dispassionately.

“Here, give me your phone.”  Blaine fished his cell out of his pocket and held it out for Kurt, who took it and handed over his own.  “I’ll text you some time; we’ll set something up.  Maybe with Mike and Tina?  They seem nice.”

Kurt nodded, entering his number mindlessly.  They exchanged phones again.  “Great!” Blaine said, clapping a hand to his upper arm, and Kurt flinched.  Blaine’s expression faltered, and he quickly removed his hand.  “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Great,” Kurt echoed, offering him a nervous but genuine smile, watching as he grabbed his shoulder bag and took Quinn’s hand and then left the room.  “Good to meet you!” he called after them too-late, mentally slapping himself as he did so.

“What was that about?” Finn asked, coming up behind him.  “Can we leave now?”

“Yeah,” Kurt agreed.  “Just making a new friend.”

Halfway through the building, Kurt took a risk and slid his hand into Finn’s, feeling equal parts brave and foolhardy and desperate for some kind of connection.  Finn glanced at him in shock but didn’t let go.  Of course he didn’t.

His hand was warm and large, familiar, and Kurt thought about maybe trying to kiss him again later.  They had to figure it out sometime, right?

Why was being a teenager so damned confusing?

*******

To Kurt’s surprise he received a text from Blaine the very next night, asking if he and Finn were free to get together Friday.  Kurt stared at his phone in shock for a moment before shaking it away, remembering about Friday night dinners and how angry his dad got that one time last year he wanted to skip.  He texted back _Saturday?_

**Sure, that could work** **J** **How about lunch?**

_Noon?  Breadstix?_

**Great, we’ll see you there!**

Kurt let his phone fall to the bed and breathed deeply until his pulse slowed to something resembling normal.

*******

The next day—Wednesday—Kurt had Glee again.  Blaine’s eyes found his as he entered the room, and he smiled at Kurt, taking the seat beside him without asking permission.  Mercedes shot him a curious glance from where she was seated at his other side, but Kurt only shrugged.  Finn sat behind him, Quinn commandeering the back corner again while Tina and Mike sat together a few chairs over from her, Puck and Sam beside Finn, Rachel and Jesse front and center as usual, right next to where Artie had parked his wheelchair.  Santana and her Fab, Brittany, came slinking in late and took seats on the far side of the room.

The first order of the day was Blaine and Quinn’s solo, and Kurt was stunned at how good they were, separately andtogether, singing Michael Buble’s _Lucky_.  Blaine looked rather pleased with himself when Kurt’s eyes followed him back to his seat, shooting him a little wink that made Kurt’s heart flutter strangely in his chest.

After class Rachel and Jesse cornered Blaine and Quinn, probably for an interrogation, and Kurt didn’t envy them one bit as he and Finn made their way out of the room, Blaine catching his eye and offering him a small smile.  Well, there was no reason Kurt _needed_ to talk to Blaine, he reminded himself.  And they had plans for the weekend, anyways.

On Saturday Kurt fussed extra-long in front of the mirror—for some reason nothing looked quite right today, and he couldn’t pinpoint _why_ —and he and Finn were ten minutes late getting to the restaurant.  Kurt spent most of the car ride lecturing Finn on his poor grooming habits, so much so that he felt guilty by the time they arrived and reached over to give Finn’s hand a small squeeze as they were directed to their table, receiving a weak smile in return that he knew meant he was forgiven.  Finn was used to Kurt’s high standards and his lectures by now, and sometimes it was good to have that familiarity, that acceptance, to depend on.

When they got to their seats it wasn’t just Blaine and Quinn there—tables had been pushed together and extra chairs crammed in, and Tina and Mike, Rachel and Finn, Santana and Brittany were sitting there, all but the latter two engaged in conversation.  Santana was yelling at a waitress in what might have been Spanish, and Brittany was twisting some straw wrappers together to make little people.

“Kurt!” Blaine smiled warmly, interrupting the chatter as if to declare his arrival.  “So glad you guys came; I was worried there for a bit!”  He patted the seat next to him—empty, as well as the chair next to it—and Kurt couldn’t help but smile back as he hurried to sit, greeting each of his other “friends” in turn as he did so.  Only Tina and Mike returned his greeting with any level of sincerity.

“Really, Kurt, you could try to be more punctual!  Jesse and I are getting hungry, and Blaine insisted we wait for you to order.”  Jesse nodded in agreement, and it took all the strength within Kurt not to scowl at them.

Rachel had had Jesse since Kurt met her—his first day of high school—and rumor had it that her dads had paid a pretty penny to purchase the most advanced levels of musical aptitude and cutthroat ambition when they had him custom ordered.  Kurt often wondered if his creators hadn’t compensated by making him a self-righteous asshat.

“It’s alright, Kurt, we didn’t mind the wait,” Tina said kindly.  Santana scoffed, yanking what looked suspiciously like a margarita from the frenzied-looking waitress when she hurried back to their table.

They placed their orders soon after, and the conversation turned to Sectionals—a dangerous subject, in Kurt’s opinion.  Blaine seemed eager to fill the group in on his own accomplishments the previous year, Rachel encouraging him by asking very careful questions that Kurt knew really meant she was sizing up the competition.  It wasn’t long before she was bragging about her own numerous accolades—and Jesse about his—which eventually pissed Santana off.  Mike and Tina looked embarrassed, Quinn amused.  Brittany, as usual, was lost in her own little world, and Finn was absorbed in the football game that was playing on the restaurant’s big-screen TV.

Kurt winced internally as he took it all in, drained half of his iced tea, and threw himself to the lions.  “Well,” he cut Rachel off.  “I really think it’s obvious we’ve got so much talent this year, Rachel, that we should probably focus on group numbers.  We could have smaller solos as part of the group songs, let everyone who wants one have a shot.  And Mike, you and Brittany could do something with your dancing; you’re both so talented.”

Blaine was nodding as he spoke, and Tina perked up, beaming at Mike and squeezing his hand.  Santana smirked and said, “I _did_ request extra flexibility!”

“That’s… ridiculous, Kurt.  No one ever wins competitions with _group numbers_ ; you’re just wasting everyone’s talent, letting them think you’ve got no one _special_!  If we get three numbers, then it naturally comes down to a solo, a duet, and _one_ group number, and we all know who they’re going to go to…”

“Wait, you guys don’t hold auditions?” Blaine asked.

“Of course we do,” Kurt told him, “Mr. Shue insists.”

“And this year, one of those numbers is going to _me_ , so bring it on bitch-Berry!” Santana said.

“Well, I never!” Rachel exclaimed.  Jesse leaned close to her, whispered something that sounded a lot like _it’s okay, babe, you know you’re a star,_ and something about jealously.  “You’re just bitter because you don’t have half the talent…”

“Enough!” Kurt tried to intervene, though they paid him little mind.

“Yeah, guys,” Tina broke in.  “This isn’t cool.  We all have unique voices, and we’re all going to get a shot at solos this year.  You aren’t the only one who wants one, Rachel, and Mike and I are a year ahead of you—we only have two years left!”

“Sam is a senior,” Mike pointed out.  “And so is Puck.  Maybe _they_ should get a shot at a solo.”

“That sounds fair to me,” Kurt conceded.  “We’ll just wait and see how it goes, then.  Fair and square.”

The others nodded—save for Rachel and Jesse, who still looked put-out—and soon after that their food arrived.  Tina began to complain about one of her teachers, everyone else following suit, and the remainder of the meal was slightly more tolerable.

As they made to leave, someone caught Kurt’s elbow just outside the door.  “Hey,” Blaine said once he had Kurt’s attention, “I’m sorry about that in there.”

Kurt offered him a smile.  “Yeah, it wasn’t quite what I expected.”

“I thought it would be a nice way to get to know everybody, the other couples I mean,” Blaine shrugged.  “I had a lot of friends at my last school, but no one very close, and before that no one at all, really, save for Quinn.  I thought it would be a good idea to try a little harder.”

“I could have warned you,” Kurt said, “about Rachel and Jesse.  They’re a little… intense.”

“That’s one word.  But hey, you live and learn.  Maybe next time it could be just the four of us?  I don’t know, Mike and Tina are alright, too.  And Brittany’s kind of endearing.”

Kurt laughed and nodded.  “Once you get used to her, yes.  But then you have to put up with Santana.  Has… has Quinn been with you long?”

Blaine glanced to where she and Finn were chatting with Mike and Tina a little ways off.  “Since I was five,” he confessed.

Kurt gasped.  “Wow.  That’s…”

“I know.  But it’s great now.  We’re really close.  That’s kind of why I transferred; I was going to an all-boys school and I got sick of being without her.  That and, well, I was popular and all but nothing really felt real there, you know?  There’s so much that’s… _false_ , in our world.”

Blaine’s hazel eyes bored into his—deep, accepting—and Kurt felt it then, something tingle through him.  Like understanding.  Like _connection_.  “Yeah,” he breathed.  “I do, I… I know what that’s like.  I’ve had Finn two years now, and I love him, I really do, and he loves me, but… it’s not what I thought.  We’re still working on it.”  He doesn’t know why he’s saying these things, things he’s only ever told Mercedes and even then not in so many words.

“Relationships take time,” Blaine said with a knowing smile, “but I think… I think things tend to work out in the end.  It did for my parents, anyways.”

“Mine too,” Kurt said, wanting to elaborate, but it looked like Finn and Quinn were getting restless now—Mike and Tina had left—and this wasn’t the time.  “So we’ll do this again?”

“Yeah,” Blaine touched his arm the same way he had the day he’d introduced himself, but this time Kurt didn’t move away, enjoying the warmth of his hand as Blaine squeezed a little, then let go.  “I’d like to be your friend, Kurt.”

“Yeah,” Kurt echoed, still caught in Blaine’s eyes.  “I’d like that too.  But… we should get back to our Fabs.”

Blaine finally broke contact and looked over to them, chuckling at the awkward way they were standing, watching them, Finn leaning over slightly to say something to Quinn that Kurt couldn’t hear.  “Probably.  I’ll text you, alright?”

“Sure,” Kurt agreed, and then Blaine moved away, walking towards Quinn, and Kurt followed him, giving Finn his warmest smile.

*******

Mercedes came over that Sunday as always, bringing her tub of nail polish and a tin of homemade cookies.  It wasn’t obvious at first that anything was wrong—not until her toenails were drying and they were both finished with _Vogue_ and flipping through _Glamour_ (Kurt) and _Teen Vogue_ (Mercedes).

“So,” she said casually, and that was _always_ a warning sign.  “I heard about the big Glee dinner yesterday.”

Kurt looked up to study her, hoping to glean some clue as to where this might be going because he could sense that it wasn’t good, but her face was carefully blank.  “It wasn’t that big,” he said.  “Just ten of us.  Who told you?”

“Tina mentioned it on the phone last night.  And ten of you is most of the Glee club, Kurt.  All the _couples_.”

Kurt shrugged and deliberately looked back down at his magazine.  “It was Blaine’s idea.  I guess he just thought we’d have something in common?  I don’t know.  I didn’t know that many people would be there.  And I’m sure he intends to get to know all of you, ‘Cedes.”

Mercedes carefully turned a page, wriggling her toes in the air, still not looking at him.  “He seems awfully interested in getting to know you.”

“Yeah, well…” he was going to tell her why, but the truth was he didn’t know why Blaine had taken such a liking to him.  It certainly wasn’t a common occurrence.  “Rachel and Santana got into an argument about Sectionals solos,” he offered instead.

Mercedes finally did look up and rolled her eyes.  “Let me guess.  Rachel insisted she should have the solo, she and Jesse should get the duet…”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Them haters just don’t know yet that those good parts are going to us this year, boo,” Mercedes said confidently, making him feel a little better about her emotional state.  Then, “You should have filmed Santana on your phone.”

“Yeah, well—it wasn’t that epic, to be honest.  We only argued for a bit and then ended up talking about school.”

Mercedes very carefully painted a second coating onto her big toe, eyes fixed on her work.  “And does Blaine like the new school?”

It was blunt, abrupt, and Kurt found himself staring at her, blinking slowly, imploring her to _look at him, damnit!_   Finally, she did.

“I don’t know,” Kurt answered cautiously.  “He didn’t really say.  We mostly talked about teachers, honestly, and he hasn’t been around enough to relate much.  Mercedes, what is up with you?  Did I do something wrong?”

Mercedes sighed and put down her magazine.  “Blaine seems to really like you.”

“You already said that,” Kurt all but snapped.

“And you like him too.”

“Yes, I do.  So what’s your point?  He… he wants to be my friend.  There’s not exactly a lot of other kids lining up to be my friend.”

“ _I’m_ your friend.  It’s always been the two of us.  No one… no one likes me, either.”

Kurt felt the tension drain out of his body, his heart drop in his chest.  “Mercedes,” he told her sincerely, reaching for her hand and looking her in the eye.  “You’ll always be my best girl.  I promise.”

Mercedes smiled at him—her first real smile of the day; he could tell these things.  “Yeah, well… it’s good for you to finally have another friend, I guess.  Besides Finn.  Just… try to include me sometimes?”

Kurt nodded his agreement.  And he meant it, he did.  Just… something told him the connection he felt with Blaine— _it’s new it’s brand new Kurt what do you know yet you don’t even understand what you’re feeling it’s just the way he smiles at you what does that mean it doesn’t mean anything just quit while you’re ahead_ —might be something bigger, something different than he’d shared with anyone before, even Mercedes, even Finn, and he kind of wanted to cradle it close, see how it would grow and keep it for only himself, at least for a little while.


	7. Quinn

_Part Seven – Age 16 – Quinn_

_Fall, Junior year_

Quinn stared into her own hollow eyes in the bathroom mirror as she carefully applied her lipstick.  Satisfied, she blotted, gave herself a once-over.  Hair, check.  _Wear it up, Quinn dear.  You’re sixteen now: a woman, not a schoolgirl._ Outfit, check.  _Always keep your clothing neat, feminine.  Female Fabs are like arm-candy, darling, you want to give my son something to be proud of!_ Makeup, check.  _Cosmetics are important.  With the right makeup, a woman can give off any impression she likes.  Wear it as your mask.  Proper Fabs are not meant to appear too emotional._ Some days, Quinn wished she could banish Mrs. Anderson’s voice from her head.  Other days it was welcome, a comfort even.  Those were the days she most wanted to hide.

She grabbed her bag, made to leave the girls’ room when the door suddenly swung open, Rachel Berry bursting in like a hurricane.  Quinn barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.  “Quinn!” Rachel exclaimed excitedly, coming too-close, right up under Quinn’s chin.  “Thank God, I thought I saw you come in here!  The girls are about to start rehearsal for our number this week, did you forget?”

Quinn took a step back, smiling fakely.  “I’m sorry; I have other plans.”

Rachel looked dumbfounded.  “But—I told you on Monday and reminded you yesterday!  We picked a time when everyone was free!”

“I was free, but Blaine made plans for us to get together with Kurt and Finn this afternoon.  You know how it is.”  Quinn shrugged.  Of course Rachel didn’t know how it is.  She was a Nat, and the girl couldn’t see past her own big-headedness.

“Blaine would understand.  This is… this is important, Quinn.  If you don’t join us we can’t cover all the parts for my backup!”

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Quinn said as sweetly as she could manage.  “I’m going to be late, if you’ll excuse me.”

“But—“

“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”

Rachel’s arms crossed as Quinn turned away, and she could hear the girl huff and stomp her feet.  Always the diva.  “There’s a reason why Blaine always wants to hang out with them, you know!  Everybody else sees it, and you’re in denial if you haven’t yet!”

Quinn ignored her, took a deep breath when the door swung shut behind her and then hurried down the hall, wanting to get as far away as possible before Rachel finished her fit and followed her out.

Blaine had said he would be waiting by Kurt’s Navigator; they had plans to drive together to the local theater.  The movie they were seeing this time sounded promising, though Quinn thought that Finn would probably hate it.  Finn always hated the movies Blaine and Kurt chose, but he never put up much of a fuss.  He was a bit dull, but overall Quinn thought that Finn was a pretty good Fab.  Anyone could see that he was devoted to Kurt, however little they had in common, and—plainly put—Finn knew his place.  A Fab that knew his place was something Quinn had been brought up to respect.

Quinn knew her place, too.  Blaine valued her, listened to her opinions, and Quinn never took that for granted.  She had seen enough of the world now to know that the way she was treated wasn’t the norm, and the norm… well, the norm wasn’t very good.

So when Blaine wanted to go to the movies with Kurt—and Blaine often wanted to go to the movies with Kurt—Quinn didn’t protest, didn’t complain or offer to mention it if she had plans.  Besides, she enjoyed these double dates.  For some reason Blaine was always more attentive to her around Kurt: holding her hand, getting the doors, his fingers brushing the small of her back, guiding her in a crowd.  Blaine was a tactile person with pretty much everybody, Quinn included, but the extra attention always made her feel happy, special.

He hadn’t always been so outgoing.  A year at Dalton had changed him.  Blaine had made friends there, found people he truly trusted, who saw something in him that wasn’t a dollar sign or a prestigious last name.  It probably hadn’t hurt that every Dalton boy had those things in common. 

Blaine had been happy at Dalton—lead singer of the Warblers—and he’d given it up for her.  Willingly and at a cost, without even being asked.

As she approached the car, Blaine straightened from where he’d been leaning close to Kurt’s ear, offering her a broad smile, taking her hand to tug her close and kiss her cheek.  Quinn beamed.  Finn said, “Hey, Quinn,” and Kurt gave a little wave, and she smiled at them, too.

“You ready to go?” Blaine asked.  “The movie starts in fifteen minutes.”

Quinn nodded, sliding into the back seat next to Blaine, not even minding when Finn and Kurt began to affectionately bicker over the radio station.

*******

The movie was even better than Quinn had expected.  Blaine’s knuckles brushed hers as they reached into the popcorn, and Blaine’s hand settled on her knee.  Quinn turned to smile at him when he did it, only to see Kurt and Finn kissing softly just beyond Blaine’s head.  Quinn wished Blaine would kiss her, too.  He didn’t do it often, and when he did it was usually a perfunctory peck.  Blaine always claimed he wanted to wait for them to be older, was afraid of them getting too carried away, and Quinn really wanted to believe him.  Unfortunately, she had spoken with too many other Fabs, all testifying that their Nats exercised no such restraint.

Kurt and Finn broke apart soon after, and Blaine squeezed her knee, beaming at her in that way he had, and Quinn felt her heart soar in her chest, turned back to the movie and tried to lose herself in the story.  After a while, it worked.

When the show was over they decided to go to dinner.  Kurt vetoed Breadstix, much to Finn’s dismay, so they drove to the local Sonic instead.  Watching Finn down three double-burgers, Quinn decided he must not mind so much after all.

It was happenstance—a completely insignificant moment.  Kurt was eating his chicken with his fork, staring at Finn in mild disgust and there was… ketchup, of all things, all over his mouth.  And Quinn could see clearly when it became too much, when Kurt couldn’t take it anymore.  He huffed, dipping a clean napkin in his water cup and reaching up; he cupped Finn’s face, muttered, “look at you, such a slob,” started cleaning him and it was so oddly _domestic_ , so intimate, and Blaine… Blaine reached for her hand, even though she was using it to eat her fries.  Quinn looked over at him with a smile on her face, to show him _what they share, yes, we share it too_.

Only Blaine wasn’t looking at her, not at all.  He was gazing at Kurt with something like… sorrow?  Envy?  _Longing?_  

And Quinn, who never felt, who never showed feeling, never focused on anything in this world except for Blaine, being perfect for _Blaine_ … she could feel it now, her heart breaking in two.  She could feel it with all the intensity of a building crumbling, a forest felling, Atlantis being swallowed up by the Ocean.

It had taken her years, but now with one look she had finally figured it out.

*******

That night Blaine hesitated before they parted ways for their own rooms, hugging her close, asking _are you alright_ with eyes that bled sincerity and read too much.  Quinn nodded, tightening her arms around him, and then… she let him go.

Quinn went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, thought back on the day, to before, to how different everything felt only hours ago, standing in the restroom at McKinley High.  She washed her face—washed off her mask—with water as freezing as ice.  She let down her hair and changed her clothes, forgoing the pretty nightgowns Blaine’s parents were kind enough to buy her in favor of an old t-shirt she’d stolen from Blaine months ago.

She tried to sleep, and she told herself:

Quinn, he loves you.  That boy loves you.  Maybe not that way.  Maybe not like _that_ , but… look at everything you’ve had together.  Look at how long you’ve been together.  He dotes on you.  He treats you like a human being.  He fought his parents for you, for the right to attend public school, for the right to give up Dalton and his _friends_ and his happiness there so he could spend all day with you.  You’re his best friend.  You’re the most important person in his life.

 _Except_ , a tiny, deceitful, _hateful_ little voice echoed in her head.  _Except maybe you’re not, anymore._

*******

The next day Quinn walked into school on Blaine’s arm, a perfect caricature, the prettiest doll.  Blaine pulled her along to Kurt’s locker, and as they approached Quinn turned to look at Blaine, thought: _I’d do anything for you, for you to be happy._

Kurt greeted Blaine first, started talking excitedly about their plans for the weekend, for shopping with Mercedes.  Blaine turned to Quinn with a look that said _“you’ll come too, right?”_ and Quinn nodded, tightened her grip on his arm.

It was then that Kurt finally paused to consider her, offering a cheerful, “Good morning, Quinn.  I love that dress!”

Quinn smiled and thanked him and it hardly even hurt; it was hardly even fake.

_A woman can give off any impression she likes._

And a Fab could too.


	8. Blaine

_Part Eight – Age 17 – Blaine_

_Late Winter, Junior Year_

Rachel had scheduled the celebration party _before_ their win at regionals—her dads must be as arrogant as she is—and after their victory, the entire Glee club was so high on adrenaline they actually decided to go.  Puck, who was repeating his senior year, and his half-brother Jake, who had joined Glee club this year along with his Fab, Marley, brought along plenty of alcohol, and with Rachel’s parents sequestered upstairs in their room for the night with earplugs and reruns of _The Golden Girls_ , the party was remarkably almost fun.

Or it started to seem fun after his first beer.  Was just one supposed affect him so greatly?  Blaine had only had small glasses of wine before when his parents entertained, so he was surprised to feel a pleasant energy humming through his body after downing a single can.  Maybe he was a lightweight.

He kind of wanted another.  Quinn shot him a disapproving look as he grabbed one and popped the tab, but for once Blaine ignored her.

To no one’s surprise, the Berrys had a small stage set up in their basement, and the first couple to grace it were Rachel and Jesse with a dramatic rendition of _Run Joey Run._   Blaine would bet any money that Rachel picked the song.  Of course, Rachel _always_ picked the song.

He took stock of the room as he drank his beer.  Sugar had dragged her Fab, Rory, to the middle of the room to dance, though he hardly looked like he minded.  Unique had joined them along with Jake and a shy, giggly Marley.  Rachel and Jesse were currently flipping through music by the stage.  Santana and Brittany had commandeered a loveseat on the far side of the room—Brittany’s face was buried in her Nat’s neck, Santana’s hands up her shirt.  In the opposite corner, Tina straddled Mike in an arm chair, his fingers splayed on the backs of her exposed thighs, their lips rarely parting.  Strewn along the wall in between were Artie and Quinn, talking quietly, both seemingly sober.  Mercedes and Kurt sat on a couch with their foreheads pressed together, laughing at something on Mercedes’ smart phone while Finn looked on from behind.

Blaine’s eyes, as always, zeroed in on Kurt.  It was rare to see him so openly _happy_ , even when it was the four of them or, more infrequently, when they were alone.  Blaine wondered how much Kurt had had to drink.  He’d noticed him accepting a wine cooler from Rachel earlier.

Blaine finished off his beer, tossing the can in the direction of the trash, his eyes never leaving Kurt.  Impulse overtook him, alcohol thrumming through his veins like liquid courage, and on a whim he approached.

“Sing with me, Kurt,” he insisted loudly.  Kurt looked up at him, startled, and Blaine was struck not for the first time by the vivid blue of his eyes.  _Love_ , his heart sang, apparently free of inhibitions as well.  _Admit it or not, Blaine: you’re in love._

“Blaine, I…”

“Please?”  He arranged his face in what he hoped was an attractive pout.  “We’ve never gotten to sing together, Kurt, and I’ve always wanted to and it’s a party, there’s a stage, why not?”  He shrugged, as if this out-of-the-blue rationale made sense.

Kurt never sang duets, not even with Finn.  He insisted on performing solo—songs of his own choosing—or not at all.

“I don’t know, Blaine, I…”

“You should do it, boo,” Mercedes urged, nudging him with an elbow.  “Lord knows Shue would never let you in Glee.”

Kurt flushed, still looking at Blaine.  Maybe he hadn’t had as much to drink as Blaine thought.  “What would we sing?” he asked at last.

Blaine’s mind raced, because he hadn’t thought so far ahead.  “We can pick anything you like—“ he started say, but Mercedes interrupted him.

“Ooo, I know!  _Just Can’t Get Enough_!  It’s perfect for your voices, and, well, look around us…”  Her eyes did a sweep of the room and then she rolled them, and Blaine beamed.

“That sounds perfect,” he agreed.  “Come on Kurt, _pleeeeease_???”

Apparently, a little alcohol put him not-above whining.

Kurt sighed.  “Alright,” he conceded, holding out his hand for Blaine to help him up.  Blaine took it, giddy.  He hoped his palm wasn’t sweating too much, wondered if Kurt felt the same small thrill shoot through his arm that Blaine was feeling, that Blaine always felt when their fingers brushed or their shoulders bumped or, _God_ , when Kurt merely smiled at him.

Rachel huffed in protest as they climbed onto the stage, informing them that she was just about to sing her better-than-the-classic version of Streisand’s _Don’t Rain on My Parade_.  Blaine pointed out that it would be rude not to let her guests have a turn, and she reluctantly surrendered to his charm, Jesse scrolling through the little computer to find their song.

It felt incredible performing with Kurt, even better than he had anticipated.  Blaine could sense every eye in the room watching them, but none of them mattered—only the beat of the music and Kurt’s body moving in rhythm next to his.  Blaine felt brave, met his eyes, reached out to touch him, drew him in so they could move together, and it was like… like a whole new world opening up, and Kurt there with him.

It took a moment to leave his heart after the music died, their fingers still tangled, and Blaine didn’t even know when or how that had happened.  He finally looked to their audience and froze.  The whole room was watching them, everybody: even the couples had stopped making out.  Only Mercedes was smiling.

Blaine’s eyes found Quinn’s, hoping for an explanation, and his heart plummeted further.  Quinn could be a hard person to read, but Blaine knew her, knew her like no other, and now he could see it, plain and cold as day.  Quinn’s eyes were dark, wistful and almost troubled—she _knew_.

Maybe everyone else did too.

He turned back to Kurt to find him still staring at Blaine, still happy, and Blaine had never been so grateful for small mercies.  He squeezed Kurt’s fingers once, releasing his hand as a slow clap broke through the silence.  It was Rachel, and others—startled—began to join in.

“I’ve got the best idea,” Rachel declared to the room.  “Why don’t we play… Spin the Bottle!  That’s the best party game, right?”  She looked to Jesse for approval, but he just shook his head, smiling, and Rachel added, “After I perform again, of course.”

As Rachel took the stage and began to sing Barbra, Blaine decided he needed more alcohol.  Maybe this party hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

When she was finished, everyone sprawled out in a giant circle on the floor, and Rachel announced cheerfully “no rules” as she sloshed the drink in her hand and took the first spin.  What proceeded was a long series of kisses that Blaine barely followed, too intent on sneaking glances at Kurt to make sure he was okay, and at Quinn, to make sure she didn’t hate him.  His heart filled with dread at the thought of the conversation they’d surely be having by the end of the night, and he drank some more.

At the end of the first round, all Blaine could recall was that Kurt had kissed Mercedes, brief and awkward.  Quinn had kissed Santana, giggly and smiling, and Puck as well, leaning too-close, a hand on his face and a shiver that might have been excitement radiating visibly through her body.  Blaine had kissed Rachel—unremarkable—and then Mike, finding his spicy cologne vaguely arousing.  _Those abs_ , he couldn’t help but think, still wishing he had the opportunity to kiss Kurt instead.  Then in a moment of clarity he remembered Quinn’s eyes, everyone’s eyes, and he was glad that he hadn’t.

Santana rolled her eyes.  “That was boring!” she declared.  “I don’t want to do it again.  Why don’t we make things more interesting?”

“The rest of us liked it just fine, Santana,” Rachel insisted, but looking around the circle, seeing the majority of the Glee club nod in agreement, it was clear to Blaine that Santana was going to win this argument.

“Seven minutes in heaven this round,” Santana said firmly

Nearly everyone perked up at that, Sugar clapping excitedly, Puck calling out, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Let’s get this party started,” Artie added enthusiastically.  Blaine wondered if he wasn’t just a bit drunk now, though eyeing Artie’s solo cup full of punch, he thought that probably wasn’t the boy’s intention.

And then the real fun started.  Or rather it didn’t, in Blaine’s opinion.  He shuffled back, hoping to disappear, to go last or not at all.  He eyed the bottle nervously with every roll, praying it wouldn’t land on him—or worse, on Kurt.

Luckily, Kurt’s roll landed on Tina.  They went into the closest laughing, their hands clasped and arms swinging between them.  When the timer dinged and Rachel opened the door, they were huddled together on the floor engrossed in a YouTube video.

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

Only a few pairings after that caught his attention.  Finn’s roll landed on Rachel, but he predictably looked to Kurt for approval before entering the closet.  When they emerged Rachel was quiet, Finn breathing heavily, and everyone stared at them wanting to _know_ ,but no one said a word.  Blaine wondered if Kurt would tell him about it later if he asked, if he would even bother to ask Finn about it himself.

There was a bit of chaos when Jake’s roll landed on Brittany.  Santana called out in warning, _“Mia chica, Puckerman Jr., hands above the waist!_ ” but Marley… Marley looked crushed.  Jake pressed a kiss to her hair before he stood, giving Brittany his full attention with an open and lascivious grin, but Blaine couldn’t tear his eyes away from the girl.  _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, thinking of the rumors-that-weren’t about Jake’s affairs with one cheerleader after another.  _I’m sorry; you’re a person; he shouldn’t do that to you._

They emerged with clothing rumpled.  Santana pulled Brittany into her lap for a possessive kiss; Jake took Marley’s hand, not even looking, not even _seeing_ her.

Quinn rolled next and got Kurt, to both their amusement, and it didn’t even occur to Blaine to be worried.  They came out on their own after seven minutes, considering each other with strange, sober expressions, and Blaine wanted so badly to ask _what happened, what did you talk_ _about?_ that his toes curled with it, and he willed the game to be over.

As he’d wanted, Blaine went last, and his roll landed on Quinn.  There was a cry of outrage— _can they do that?  It doesn’t count if it’s your own Fab!_ —but eventually they were shuffled into the closet like the rest, the door closing behind them, and it was… dark, a little cold.

“Quinn?” Blaine said into the emptiness. 

“Yeah, I’m right here.”  She stepped closer, her fingertips brushing Blaine’s arm, and he sighed in relief.  Whatever else this was, at least it was safe.  Familiar.

He thought back a few years, remembering how determined he’d once been that Quinn would never know that there was anything wrong between them, anything different about him.  Blaine still wanted just as badly to protect her now, but he knew it was too late.  The game had changed the moment he’d stepped through McKinley’s doorway and spied a lanky teen in unusual clothing, his eyes the color of the sky just before a storm.

He’d never planned for Kurt.  There was no planning for Kurt.  Kurt had leapt into his heart and made a home there, inevitable and unchanging, and Blaine still had not a clue what he was meant to do about it.

Blaine swallowed, squared his shoulders, thought: _courage_.  It was out there, he knew it was out there now, and the very worst thing to do would be the thing he wanted most: avoidance.  “We should… we should talk.”

“What about?” Quinn’s voice was too-casual, and even without sight Blaine knew she was deflecting.

“About me,” Blaine forced out, wetting his lips because they were suddenly, unbearably dry.  “Me and Kurt.  About… my feelings.”

For a moment there was silence.  “I already know about that,” Quinn admitted.

“Because of the song,” Blaine supplied.  “I… I wasn’t planning on telling you.  I never wanted to hurt you, Quinn.”

“I’ve known longer.”

Blaine nearly gasped his surprise.  He’d hoped he’d been less obtuse.  “How long?”

“Since… since last year.  You—the movies.  I saw you staring at him.  I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner.”  She paused, then, “How long for you?”

He couldn’t tell—not in the dark, not from her voice alone—how she was feeling, and he hated that.  “We’re not… we’re not actually together, Quinn!  God, I don’t think he even knows.”

“He feels the same, you know.  He asked me not to say.”

“You… you spoke with him.”

He sensed, didn’t see her nod.  “Seven minutes.”

Blaine took a deep breath, let everything come pouring out like water through a busted dam.  “I’ve loved him so long, Quinn.  Maybe since the first moment I saw him.  I can’t explain it, just… there was something there.  There was always something there.”

It felt good to say it.  To his best friend—to anyone, maybe.  _Freeing_.

“I’m happy for you,” Quinn said, soft and slow.

“Are you… are you really?”

She hesitated, and Blaine could sense it: the awkward, the unsure, the _hurt_ , and there was a war of feelings within him, their intensity fueled by alcohol.  “I want you to be happy,” she answered at last.

Blaine pulled her close, cocooned her in his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.  “I want you to be happy, too.”  His words were muffled, spoken into her hair.  “And you know it’s not… it’s not you.  You’re perfect.  If I… if I were straight.”  He’d never said them, the words _I’m gay_ , and the worst part was that no one would care, not if there hadn’t been Quinn since he was five, since before he could understand.

“I know.  I believe that, Blaine,” she pulled back, and Blaine wished more than ever he could see her eyes.  “I will be happy,” she finished quietly, sounding resolute.

The door was opening, and they were shooed out, and Blaine… Blaine didn’t look at anyone, not even Kurt, as he grabbed another beer.

*******

In the wee hours of the morning Quinn drove them home, rightfully deeming herself the most sober of the four.  The entire car ride Blaine thought about it, thought about finally, really doing it, the miraculous words _he feels the same_ echoing in his mind, the want thrumming through his body making his legs jump, his pulse speed.  When they got to Kurt’s house Finn rushed inside, mumbling something about the bathroom.  Kurt and Blaine lingered on the porch.  The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Kurt’s face was lit faintly by the porch light, and Blaine’s drunken eyes thought he looked almost angelic.

There was so much unspoken between them, and Blaine knew in the morning it would probably be buried; they would continue this charade of denial, unacknowledged.  But right now Kurt was beautiful, and Blaine was still buzzed, still brave in the darkness.  The same feeling sparked between them that always sparked between them, and for a moment there were no secrets, no desire to keep them.

He didn’t think, didn’t want to as he moved closer, and Kurt exhaled a little _“oh”_ as his head collided with the brick wall of his porch, and Blaine was finally, shockingly, kissing him.

Kurt’s lips were soft and cold and sweetly parted, and Blaine felt alive, for the first time _alive_ , taking his mouth and pressing in, his hands finding Kurt’s slender hips as Kurt’s closed around his shoulders.  They kissed and breathed and sighed and it didn’t stop, Quinn watching from the car, Burt or Carole or Finn or the next door neighbor could be looking on from a window and Blaine didn’t care.  He hadn’t gotten to kiss Kurt tonight, faked nonchalance amid childish games, and so he was doing it now for real, damnit.  He was doing it.  He was kissing _Kurt_.

One of them cried out when they finally broke apart, and Kurt’s eyes were all Blaine could see, a world of emotion in them that was heartbreaking as much as reassuring, because Kurt was not the world; the world was vast and dark and calculated and cruel, and nothing like Kurt nor what Blaine felt for him at all.

Blaine said, gruff against Kurt’s lips, “I won’t kiss you again, not unless you ask me,” and then forgot his promise, pressed in one final time, one final note of joy and sorrow.

He felt Kurt’s gaze on him as he made his way back to his car, back to Quinn and his parents and reality.  It wasn’t until Kurt’s eyes were gone that he felt the chill of early March, seeping into his bones like the very worst reminder. 

 _Was this the night_? he wondered foolishly, hardly daring to hope.  Maybe it wouldn’t, couldn’t be buried—not what Blaine felt, not what they’d just shared.  This could be the night that changed everything.  The night that might sever him and Quinn, and God, he couldn’t lose her.  The night that maybe meant Kurt, finally resting in his heart, his hand in Blaine’s in secret, only in secret.  The night that meant _risk_ —what about his parents, what would they think if they knew?  What about his freedom, what about prison, Blaine wasn’t _good_ at keeping secrets.

*******

Monday morning Kurt smiled at Blaine in greeting—the same smile he’d always given, though something about it didn’t sit quite right.  He held Finn’s hand through the hallways, kissed him in front of the entire Glee club for the very first time.  Blaine felt Quinn’s eyes on him, felt her sympathy, her delicate fingers curling around his wrist as she moved to sit beside him and together they watched Kurt and Finn sing _Don’t Go Breaking My Heart_.

Friday night hadn’t meant anything.  But how could it not, when everything felt so irrevocably different, so fragile, so much like hope?

 _Hope can shatter_ , Blaine reminded himself.  _You knew not to harvest it; hope can shatter_.

And apparently, so could Blaine’s heart.


	9. Finn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my favorite for reasons unknown. Fair warning, though - it contains the most explicit amount of Kurt/Finn in the story, which honestly isn't saying much. If you love me, please read it anyway!

_Part Nine – Age 17 – Finn_

_Spring and Summer, Junior Year_

Finn was _wrong_.

It was the very worst thing that a Fab could be.

It had taken him a while to realize that his feelings for Kurt were not all they were supposed to be—partly because Finn felt _so strongly_ for him that at times it was overwhelming, and partly because, well, it’s pretty confusing being dropped into the world, just like that, knowing and feeling so much but having no idea how it all got there.

From the very beginning, Finn had felt yoked to Kurt; he knew with certainty there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for the boy who had chosen him.  Everything was fine, was right between them; even if Finn had a hard time understanding all the weird stuff Kurt was into, like clothes and romantic comedies and musicals, it was okay.  It was nothing to sit there and watch or listen and be bored if Finn was doing it for him.  The only part he really hated was when Kurt would notice his disinterest, and his face would fall like he just didn’t get it, why Finn couldn’t share things with him that way.  Then Finn would try harder.

Everything was fine until things got physical.

The first time Kurt kissed him he gave Finn plenty of warning, but try as he might Finn couldn’t turn off his brain, couldn’t stop wondering what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to react.  He moved his lips against Kurt’s and waited for him to retreat, focused on breathing in and out through his nose, on his hands that curled around Kurt’s ribs, on _this is natural; this is supposed to happen; this is what Kurt wants_.  He didn’t feel much, good or bad—nothing but awkward uncertainty.

As time passed and the times they’d kissed grew in number, Finn got more comfortable with the act, felt a little more confident.  He waited for it then, for the feeling everyone talked about experiencing, for the want and desire and pleasure to set in.  But it just… it didn’t.

And Finn couldn’t tell Kurt.  He _couldn’t_ tell him, couldn’t hurt him that way.

Finn counted it a blessing that Kurt was shy about physical things, that he wanted to move slowly, wanted everything to be romantic.  Kurt tried to model their relationship after couples in his favorite movies, several of whom never moved past a chaste kiss or embrace, a simple touch of the fingertips.  Finn could live with that.  By the time Kurt was ready to go further, things would change for him.  He was sure of it.

Only they were teenage boys with teenage hormones, and they shared a room, and in retrospect Finn figured he might have underestimated the weight of that factor in his expectations of Kurt’s behavior.  In all honesty, Kurt probably had too.

Kurt didn’t plan it; of that Finn was certain.

It had happened only once before, the same week Finn moved in.  He’d woken up hard and rutting against the mattress of his twin-sized bed with no clue what it might mean, and it was pure instinct that led him to touch.  He hadn’t known.  He hadn’t known it wasn’t okay to do those things around other people.  The sounds he had made woke Kurt up, and his eyes had widened at the exposure of Finn’s body.  Kurt had pulled the covers tight around himself and blushed and explained, stuttering and too-quick, that _those things are private, Finn.  Try the shower please._

Finn had blushed too, utterly humiliated and feeling guilty for upsetting Kurt, and of course he had taken Kurt’s advice to heart.  From that moment on, he took care of business privately, as instructed, and if some mornings he woke up hard, or if Kurt did—visibly tenting his sheets from across the room—it was something they both learned to politely ignore.

And then came the morning Finn woke up early from an intense dream he couldn’t quite remember—one of _those_ dreams, he was sure of it—and Kurt was out cold, snoring, a full hour left before their alarm would sound.  Finn barely thought it through before he had a hand wrapped around himself under the covers, biting into his pillow.  Halfway through it got too hot, so he threw the covers off, shoved his pants and boxers down to his knees and worked himself faster, until—

Until he heard a startled cry from across the room, lifted his pillow and turned his head to find Kurt sitting up in bed, watching him.  The flush of his cheeks was familiar, but his expression wasn’t.  Finn wanted to stop then, but he was too close, the pleasure too sharp.  He turned his face away and tried to banish Kurt’s from his mind and within seconds it was over, and…

And Kurt was at his bedside, warm fingers splayed on his stomach, rapt interest alight in his eyes as they trailed Finn’s body.  Finn wished then that he hadn’t decided to look at Kurt, that he could ignore this because he wasn’t ready for it, and it felt wrong, and suddenly he was painfully certain that he didn’t want this, any of it, that it would never change and…

And Kurt’s breath was escaping him in sharp, audible bursts; he climbed onto the edge of Finn’s bed and bent to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth.  It was only then that Finn noticed that Kurt was hard, that Kurt’s behavior finally began to click, to make sense in his fuzzy brain.  Kurt whispered tentatively, so sweetly, _“Please Finn, would you touch me?  Do you—do you mind?”_

And so Finn did.

It happened a few times after that—once that Kurt touched him—and like the kissing it got more comfortable, endurable, but never _good_.  Finn suspected that maybe Kurt knew it, how he didn’t feel.  He suspected that it made Kurt sad, and that made Finn sad.

Somehow, by some fluke, Finn was made wrong, and in the end there was nothing he could do but accept that there was nothing he could do about it.

*******

But then.  But then…

She’d freaked as soon as the door slammed behind them, throwing herself against his body in the dark, and it was instinct to wrap his arms around her, squeeze her tight as she trembled and clung and muttered something while he shushed her, pet her hair, bent in half and said into her ear, _“it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright,”_ and fumbled for the light.

He found it, and when she finally calmed he straightened, his hand slipping to her face.  She looked up at him, eyes wide and brown and glistening and maybe it was instinct, too, that made him bend again to kiss her.

She—sighed into it, her body melting against his, delicate hands curling at his chest and around his neck, her mouth falling open, letting him lick inside.  It was sudden and unexpected and powerful, and he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.  This was _Rachel_ , breasts pressed into his upper stomach, the curve of her waist, flare of her hip.  He couldn’t stop touching her, running his hand over the dip of her body, keeping her close, trembling with the want of her, no room in his mind for question or doubt.

Seven minutes.  Not enough time—not nearly enough—and it shook him, changed him, maybe forever.

Afterwards he didn’t look at Kurt, _couldn’t_ look at him, shame and confusion and, God, and _wrongness_.  The night passed in a blur of alcohol he wasn’t even berated for, and when he finally, blessedly arrived home he made a beeline for the bathroom, heaved into the toilet and sprawled onto his bed before Kurt had even reached the room.

They didn’t say goodnight.  They barely spoke, barely interacted all weekend, and then Monday came and Kurt was all over him, showering him with affection like never before, and Finn was Kurt’s Fab, what could he do?  He did what was expected of him, what Kurt wanted, but he didn’t feel any better for it—not with Rachel in the hallways and half his classes and Glee club, her alluring brown eyes flickering too-often to his, heavy with secret.

But nothing happened.  He held Kurt’s hand, kissed him in public if never at home, watched out for him as always, tried wholeheartedly to be _good_ to him.  Nothing happened, not for weeks, and they were okay.  Brown eyes, soft curves in the night.  Blue eyes and strong hands by day.

Everything was _wrong_ , but Finn was okay.

*******

Three months later—a mere week before summer vacation—they still hadn’t spoken a word to each other about the kiss they had shared that night.  Finn had grown used to the spark that seemed to crackle between them with every stolen glance in the hallway or across the choir room, had nearly accepted that that was all there would ever be. 

And then.  And then…

It was a day like any other.  He sat beside Kurt in Glee club, as had recently become their custom, and Rachel got up to sing—sans Jesse—and there was nothing remarkable about it at all, until Rachel’s eyes met his as she announced her song choice, fleeting and heavy with intent.  The melody Brad began to play on the piano was haunting, getting under Finn’s skin, and her voice seemed to draw him in from the very first word.

It was over-the-top, overdramatic; Rachel performed the song flawlessly as always.  Finn couldn’t take his eyes off of her, was completely and utterly transfixed.

She didn’t look his way again, but Finn knew every word was meant for him.

Rachel cried as she sang the last stanza.

_A time for us, someday there'll be_

_A new world, a world of shining hope for you and me_

As Brad played the final chords, Mr. Shue hurried from his seat to grab a box of tissues, offering them up to the distraught girl.  Rachel took one with a sniffle, for once avoiding the eyes of her audience and hurrying back to her seat beside Jesse, who immediately wrapped an arm around her and tugged her close to his body.

Finn felt a sudden, vicious stab of jealousy, unexpected and alarming.

“That was very… emotional, Rachel, thank you,” Mr. Shue said awkwardly after a long lapse of silence.

“It’s from the 1968 version of _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Kurt whispered in Finn’s ear matter-of-factly.  “Quite the classic; you’ll have to see it.”

Finn nodded and swallowed against the lump in his throat, watching vacantly as Mr. Shue wrote the words _forbidden love_ in red capital letters across the marker board.  He was saying something Finn couldn’t quite focus on—no doubt about the weekly lesson—while shooting not-so-subtle concerned glances in Rachel’s direction.

The class moved along, and Finn sat and stared, his mind carefully blank, only Kurt’s occasional snarky comment having any resonance.  When it was over, Finn waited while Kurt chatted a bit with Mercedes, his hand a familiar warmth in Finn’s own, then allowed himself to be tugged out of the room.

“Finn!” a clear, feminine voice called out, and he spun, breaking Kurt’s grip.

Rachel was standing there, eyes still a little red but smiling faintly.  “You dropped something,” she continued, handing him a crumbled up piece of paper.

“Thanks,” Finn said, shoving it into his pocket.  He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I hope that’s not your homework,” Kurt chastised, then, “thank you, Rachel.”

Rachel nodded, and Finn reluctantly turned, followed Kurt out the door.

“What is with you today?” Kurt asked, halting them in the hallway to press a hand to Finn’s forehead, brow furrowed with concern and perhaps a little annoyance.  “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” Finn said, jerking away on instinct.  Then, guiltily, “I’m sorry, Kurt.  I’m just tired.”

Kurt offered him a worried smile.  “It’s okay,” he said.  “Just—take a nap when we get home, alright?  You look terrible.”

“Yeah.  A nap sounds good.”

The paper seemed to burn his skin even through the thick layers of his letterman’s jacket, and Finn didn’t know if he was more terrified or eager to read the words he suspected it bore.  He followed Kurt to the car and tried not to think.

*******

A date, a time, a place—the auditorium, of course—and Finn fidgeted nervously as he waited.  Kurt would kill him for skipping class for this, but then he couldn’t exactly tell Kurt about this at all.

“You came.”

The voice came from behind him as it had the day before, but it wasn’t as sharp today, and when he turned around Rachel’s smile was softer, more sincere.  This wasn’t Rachel Berry’s show face.

“I… yeah,” Finn fumbled.  “I read the note.”

Rachel stepped forward and took Finn’s hand.  Her skin was soft like Kurt’s, but her fingers were smaller, more delicate, and he folded them into his palm easily.

“I’m glad you did,” Rachel said.  “I wasn’t sure that you would.”

Finn nodded, eyes locked with hers, and for a long moment they were silent.  Eventually, Rachel took a deep breath—Finn watched her chest lift with it—and spoke again.

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened.  At the party.”

“You were drunk,” Finn said.

“Only a little,” Rachel dismissed.  “I… I liked it.  Kissing you.”

Finn hesitated.  His next words, if he said them, would be dangerous.  But… Rachel was risking something too, wasn’t she?  It wouldn’t feel right to lie about this, to turn his back on this chance.

It would be wrong if he didn’t.

“I liked it too.”  The words left him in a burst of indecision.

Rachel stared at him, her eyes half-lidded, then all at once she rushed forward, her lips a hard press against his own.  Before he could react, they were gone.  She was blushing.

“I had hoped so,” she said.

“I liked your song.”

Rachel’s entire face lit up when she beamed, and Finn felt the tug of her weight on his hand when she hopped up and down in place, giddy.  “You liked that?  I wanted something dramatic, something that would make a statement.  That and, well… Romeo and Juliet did meet at a party, you know?  And Juliet was already betrothed to another man.  It was all very dangerous, very romantic.  Especially their illicit marriage, and…”

Finn’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open.  “I’m not… I’m not ready to get married, or whatever it is, or… I guess I kind of already am, but…  I’m not…”

“Finn,” Rachel said, still smiling, her dark eyelashes fluttering prettily.  “I’m not asking you to; I’m just… I just want to be together.”

“What about Kurt?  What about Jesse?  I can’t believe I’m doing this to him, and you… doesn’t it bother you at all?”

Rachel’s face fell.  “Jesse is very… intense.  He’s… he’s everything I was raised to want, but just… fake, somehow.  And you’re… you’re a Fab too, I know, but you seem real, Finn.  And you make me feel alive.  Don’t you want to feel that way?”

Finn hadn’t really thought about it before, but something about her words struck a chord within him, and he found himself nodding in agreement.

Rachel squealed and did the jumpy thing again, and Finn had to fight the instinct to pull her into his chest just to muffle the sound.  “A secret romance will be so good for my performing career too; I just know it!”

Finn opened his mouth to respond to that, but then she was kissing him again, and he decided it wasn’t so important.  This was Rachel, after all, and Rachel was going to be… well, _Rachel_. 

And that was kind of what was so great about her.

Their mouths parted just as the bell sounded, signaling the start of the next class, and Rachel sighed against him.  “We’ll have to find a way to meet over the summer,” she said hurriedly.  “I know!  I’ll befriend Kurt.  It’s perfect.  I can come over to visit and find excuses to leave for the bathroom or something and sneak to see you!  Oh, it will be so romantic… stolen moments… we can meet here tomorrow, though, same time, yes?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, only pecked his lips again and turned to go, but Finn caught her wrist.

“Rachel,” he said.  “Rachel, I love Kurt.  Not… not like I’m supposed to.  But I don’t want to hurt him, alright?”

She studied his face carefully, her own arranged into some mixture of confusion and compassion, and finally said, “We won’t, okay?  He’ll not know; I promise.”

Finn nodded and kissed her, and then she was gone.

*******

On the first Tuesday of summer vacation, Rachel showed up at the Hudson house entirely unexpected, smiling sweetly at Carole and asking to see Kurt.

Kurt was confused, frowning at Finn openly and accidentally pricking him with the pin he’d been using to set the hem of Finn’s dinner jacket.  “Just a minute!” he called out loudly, then said to Finn, “I hope she’s not here to invite us to another Berry Family Talent Show.  I barely survived the first one!”

Finn nodded sympathetically, because he did remember that too, and tried desperately to fight the sudden rush of anxiety that settled sickly in the pit of his stomach.

“You don’t look so good,” Kurt told him.  “Why don’t you get out of this jacket and lay down for a bit while I go and see what Rachel wants?  I don’t have the next design quite ready yet anyway.”

“Sure, Kurt,” Finn said, relieved for more reasons than one because he hated hated _hated_ being used as Kurt’s personal mannequin, even if he would never admit as much to Kurt.

Three minutes later and freshly dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Finn crept to the top of the stairs just in time to see Rachel dragging Kurt towards the living room.  She was laughing, clutching at least three DVDs in the crook of her arm and pretending not to notice that Kurt was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head.  He met Finn’s eyes, rolled his own and shrugged his shoulders just before they disappeared from sight.

Forty-seven minutes later and Rachel was sneaking into their bedroom, giggling and kissing him after shaking him awake and insisting he stand up first because _what kind of girl do you think I am, Finn!  We can’t make out in your bed!_

Ninety-eight minutes and she was pulling him into a closet, because _I thought it might remind us of when we fell in love_ , and then she sang to him, of all things.

“Kurt will think you sing while you pee,” Finn said into her hair.

She pulled back, eyes wide, “Oh but I do, of course!  I couldn’t waste time like that when I should be practicing!”

And then at one-hundred-and-twenty-seven minutes, she crowded him against the counter in the kitchen.  “I’m leaving soon,” she said.  “The movie’s almost over.  Thank God musicals are long!  You should watch with us next time.”

Kurt would like that, Finn thought, and then he thought about what a disaster that could turn out to be.  “I really shouldn’t,” he said.

At one-hundred-and-fifty-three minutes, Kurt closed the front door behind Rachel with an exaggerated sigh.  “Well, that was unexpected.  I never knew girls peed so much!  I’m pretty sure Mercedes doesn’t.”

“Must be a smaller bladder,” Finn said dismissively, and Kurt smiled at him, shrugged and took his hand.

“You seem to be feeling better.  I’m glad.”

“The rest helped,” Finn said, and felt the guilt begin to swell inside.

*******

They made it through almost the entire summer before Kurt found them, the second time they _were_ on the bed, and as they sprang apart Kurt’s eyes widened and his face fell and all he said was, “Oh.  _Oh_.”  And then he was gone, fleeing the room, and Finn was running after him, calling his name, barely noticing when Rachel started crying, still sitting propped against Finn’s headboard.

They ended up in the living room, and Finn had never been so grateful that Burt and Carole were both working and out of the house.  Kurt’s face was scrunched, his eyes glazed over with tears, his fists clenching, and Finn didn’t know what to do because he’d never seen Kurt like this, this far from control.  “Kurt…” he started, unsure.

Kurt wouldn’t look at him.  “I thought she was my friend!  I thought she legitimately wanted to be my friend, and all this time she’s just been using me to get to you.”

Finn had to step back and take stock of that, because it wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting to hear.  Finn began to say something that was probably only Kurt’s name again, but Kurt wasn’t finished.

“Why are you so popular?!” he snarled, a clear accusation.  “Why is it that everybody likes _you_!  You’re my Fab, Finn.  You were supposed to be like me!”

Finn’s stomach felt like lead.  He wanted so badly to reach out and touch Kurt, to offer him some measure of comfort, but there was something frightening in the fierce red of Kurt’s tear-streaked face and all he could manage was a hushed, “I’m sorry.”

Kurt heaved a shaky breath and dropped heavily onto the edge of the sofa.  “Why do you like her, anyway?”  Finn opened his mouth to answer, but Kurt raised a hand to halt him.  “Besides the obvious.  Honestly, Finn: she’s selfish and arrogant and ruthlessly ambitious.  I don’t even know how I managed to like her.”  He laughed humorously.  “That’s a lie; I do know.  It’s because I was stupid enough to believe that she actually liked me.”

Cautiously, Finn took a seat beside him, relieved when Kurt didn’t protest or move away.  He seemed calmer now, but he was shaking, and Finn didn’t like the look on his face.  “I don’t know, Kurt.  I mean—I know all of that is true.  But she’s kind of amazing, don’t you think?”

Kurt scoffed.  “Sure, Finn.”

“I’m not… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Kurt sighed deeply and took his time reaching over to the coffee table, plucking a tissue and sniffling loudly, wiping furiously under his eyes and at his nose.  “I know that, Finn.  I know.  I’m not… I’m not under any false pretenses about this relationship, either.  I haven’t been for a long time.”

Silence stretched between them like a great gulf.  They sat silently, each on their own separate shores.

“Rachel is incredibly talented,” Kurt said eventually.  “And I guess she’s kind of pretty, if you’re into girls.”

“I am,” Finn said, swallowing thickly, “into girls.”

Kurt smiled satirically.  “I know.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

Kurt sighed again—softer this time—and slowly took Finn’s hand.  “I know.”  A beat of silence.  “Rachel… does she make you happy?”

The question caught him off guard, and Finn found himself taking a moment to really think about it. 

Rachel definitely had her flaws, especially those Kurt had mentioned.  But then there was the way she fit so perfectly in his arms; the way she smiled at him, soft and vulnerable—a smile he’d never seen her use before, not with anyone.  The way she made him feel so special in a world where he’d always been ordinary, been just short of good enough.  The way it felt when he kissed her, when they touched, like the moment could swallow him up.  The way she stood out in a room full of people, brighter than all the rest, a sun among stars.

Kind of like Kurt, actually, except with boobs.

“Yeah,” Finn said, smiling to himself and unable to stop it.  “Yeah, she really does.”

“Good,” Kurt said, something lost in his expression.  He squeezed Finn’s hand, then dropped it.  “I’m glad.”

Kurt stood up and ran his fingers through his hair—a sure sign of distress, but as always Finn had no idea how to fix it. 

“I’ll cover for you,” he said definitively, not meeting Finn’s eyes.  “You can tell Rachel.  She can keep coming here.  We can keep pretending to be friends.  But Finn—“

“Yes.”

“Make sure you tell her I am _not_ her friend.”

*******

That night Finn was sinking into sleep when a faint brush of fingertips across his shoulder jolted him awake.

“Huhh?”

It was Kurt, of course, and Finn squinted into the darkness to try to make out his face.

“I can’t sleep,” Kurt said quietly, arms wrapped tight around himself.  “I know it… I know it’s not… but just this once, Finn, could you please… could you hold me?”

Finn blinked at him, taking a moment to process.  “Yeah.  Yes, of course, Kurt.”  _Anything_.

Kurt settled beside Finn on his back, his head on Finn’s shoulder, and at some point he turned, curling a fist into Finn’s t-shirt.

Finn stayed awake and listened to Kurt breathe: in and out, in and out, almost nervously until at last it evened, and Kurt relaxed beside him, and he was asleep.  Finn tilted their foreheads together, pressed a soft kiss to Kurt’s brow when he was certain that Kurt wouldn’t feel it.

He knew the world was imperfect, that it was dangerous, that it was so much bigger and darker than a Fab like him could begin to understand.  But just for now he allowed himself to shut that out, to drift peacefully on a stolen promise: everything would be alright.


	10. Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter that I'm sure many of my readers have been waiting for. I hope it was worth the delay! Thank you so much for bearing with me; I know this fic has been slow going (and will continue to be so,) but it is very dear to me, and I appreciate every one of you that continue to have patience and read and offer your wonderful, motivating reviews. Bless<3

_Part Ten – 18 – Kurt_

_Fall, Senior Year_

Kurt’s life was a mess.  And what was worse, he had only himself to blame for it.

The summer had passed miserably, with next to no interaction with Blaine.  After Rachel’s party, Kurt had been certain that he’d made the right decision in putting some distance between them and discouraging Blaine’s affections—no matter that they were, in fact, returned.  It was the rational thing to do, putting safety first, and if their happiness had to be sacrificed to keep Blaine safe… well, it was an unjust world in which they lived.

But so much had happened over the summer to rip Kurt’s carefully constructed philosophy apart.  He’d been so tied up in his troubles with Blaine that he’d missed all the signs that something was amiss with Finn, that he’d allowed Rachel to manipulate him and hang him out to dry.  The fallout had been… humiliating.  Completely, utterly, gut-wrenchingly humiliating.

And now he was alone, with only Mercedes and perhaps Finn to count as true friends.  No Blaine to brighten his days, no Rachel and her vapid, egotistical chatter to fill them.

Senior year lay before him like an endless, barren desert, and on the first day of school even his practiced routine of tailoring his appearance to fashionable perfection couldn’t ease the burden of the journey ahead.

Kurt sighed as he touched off his look with one final gust of hairspray, staring vacantly into his own eyes in the mirror.  Finn would be waiting.

*******

AP English Lit was his second-to-last class of the day.  Kurt could feel his spirits begin to lift with the promise that his torment was nearly over… until he walked into the classroom and realized there were only two seats remaining—one next to Dave Karofsky, his most invested bully, and one between Blaine and Rachel.  Quinn, seated on Blaine’s other side, shot Kurt a sympathetic look, and he managed a small smile for her as he sank into the empty desk, ignoring Rachel’s cheerful greeting and avoiding Blaine’s eyes.

Fortunately, arriving at the last minute also left little time for chit-chat; Kurt had barely gotten his book out and artfully arranged on his desk before the teacher, Ms. Bowers, was demanding attention, taking the roll.  He allowed his shoulders to slump the barest amount, relieved.

She spent the entire class going over the syllabus.  Normally Kurt would resent the tedium, but today her droning was a godsend. 

Until she got to their biggest assignment.

“Last year, several of my students complained in their review that we covered only classic literature.  Unfortunately, much of the material is a state requirement and therefore out of my control.”  She peered at the class over the top of her bifocals, as if mentally assessing them to determine if they were up to par.  “You’ll find on the last page of your syllabus a list of fifty classic novels as well as a list of fifty modern works of literature.  Your task will be to select one book from each list that have something in common.  You will read them— _not the Cliff Notes_ , Mr. Peterson; you can put your hand down—and write a 20-page book review and comparative essay.”

The class groaned in unison, and Kurt could have sworn he saw Ms. Bowers’ eyes glint in satisfaction.

“It’s a semester-long assignment, so I don’t encourage procrastination.  And you’ll be working in pairs.”

Kurt’s heart seized up— _no no no no, anything but group work_ —reading the words almost simultaneously as they left her mouth.  He crossed his fingers, not sure whether to hope he’d be paired up, avoiding the dread of having to find his own partner, or left with at least some say as to who to trust for a passing grade.  At least with the latter, there was some chance he’d be the odd one out, and perhaps left to work alone.  Frantically, he began counting heads.

Ms. Bowers looked at the clock.  “You have five minutes.  Please choose your partners.  You may stop by my desk on your way out to inform me of your choice.”

Pandemonium broke out, but Kurt hardly noticed.  There were painted-pink fingernails gripping his arm, Rachel’s face far too close to his, and Kurt tried desperately to back away, could barely focus on her words.

“… know you don’t think we’re really friends, Kurt, but I want to be—really, every leading lady needs a best gay!—and my drive to succeed would practically guarantee you an A!  Plus it would give me more excuses to be over at your house, which would be advantageous because I’m beginning to fear that Jesse’s getting suspicious, and—“

Suddenly a hand closed around Rachel’s wrist, yanking her off of him and away, and Kurt sucked in the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Gosh, Rachel, give the boy some room to breathe!  Can’t you see his face?  He looks nearly panicked!”

 _Blaine_ , Kurt’s mind supplied, just before instinct made him look up to find Blaine’s handsome face peering down at him, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Kurt,” he said after giving Kurt a few moments of space.  Kurt hated how his heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name on Blaine’s lips.  It had been so long… “Kurt, would you like to be my partner?”

Kurt continued to stare at him, dumbfounded, then shook his head to clear the stupor.  “I… what about Quinn?”

“Nat/Fab pairs can’t be partners,” Quinn supplied, appearing next to Blaine.  “It says in the syllabus.  I’m working with Maria.” 

He looked down at his paper.  She was right.

“So?” Blaine said, the nervous twitch of a smile on his face.  “How about it?”

Kurt’s mind was spinning with too much indecision; he couldn’t slow it down enough to make heads or tails of what he should do.  But Blaine’s eyes were kind and warm and hopeful, watching Kurt with a familiar affection that made him ache with nostalgia.  Without really planning to, he found himself saying, “Yes.”

*********

Friday evening found them sprawled out side-by-side on Kurt’s bed with their booklists in front of them, Blaine looking carefree and happy and Kurt’s stomach churning with nervous energy.  This was so familiar to him, so simple and casual in appearance when beneath the surface it was anything but.

He wished he knew what Blaine was thinking.

“So,” Blaine said, looking up at Kurt was an easy smile, “I was thinking two things: we could go the romance route, which would be easy, or we could go Dystopian, which would be interesting.”

“Or we could go political,” Kurt said, both of Blaine’s ideas making him somewhat queasy.

“Dystopia is political, Kurt.”

“But I think it hits a little too close to home,” Kurt blurted out, then immediately slapped his hand over his mouth, shaking his head.  “I didn’t say that.”

Blaine’s smile was sadder now, his eyes full of empathy.  He quietly said, “But you did.”

Kurt sighed and looked away.  “Let’s just forget it, then, please.”

Blaine shifted on the bed, causing the mattress to bounce, and when Kurt turned back to him he was beaming again.  “Romance it is, then!”  He glanced down at his list and wrinkled his nose.  “Just, not _Romeo and Juliet_ …”

“ _Tristen and Isolde_?” Kurt suggested hopefully.  Equally clichéd, he thought, but their story had more intrigue, greater depth.

“Or _Jonathan and David_ ,” Blaine said, his eyes—for a brief and unending moment—locking with Kurt’s.

Kurt forgot to breathe.  He looked down at his own list.  “They’re not on here,” he said, a little lost.

“Right.  _Tristen and Isolde_ it is, then.”  Blaine was blushing now, pulling a notebook and pencil from his bag beside the bed.  Kurt tried not to stare at the way he stretched, shirt riding up, to retrieve them. 

He popped back up, tearing the cap off of his pen with his teeth.  “I’m vetoing _Twilight_ for our modern pick, though.  The only thing redeemable about that was—“

“—was Taylor Lautner’s abs,” Kurt finished for him.  Then he remembered that Blaine wasn’t actually supposed to be gay and felt his own face flush.

Blaine chucked nervously.  “And they weren’t even in the book,” he added.

This was awkward.  This was going to be a long stretch of awkward if Kurt didn’t find the guts to do something about it.

And what, now, did he really have to lose?

Kurt gathered his courage, forced himself to really look at the boy beside him and said, “I’ve missed you, Blaine.”

He heard Blaine’s sharp inhale, watched the smile fade from his face.  Kurt thought he might die on the spot, felt his heart begin to race as his mind kept pace— _you did it you broke it you...  What if he asks you?  What if he wants to know_ why _?_

Kurt didn’t know how he’d answer that.  He was keeping Blaine safe.  He was keeping them all safe.  But safe from what?  Did anyone really know?

Then Blaine’s hand shot out, his fingers curving around Kurt’s palm and his thumb brushing Kurt’s wrist, eyes wide and earnest and… and relieved, maybe, as he said, “I missed you too.”

It was like spring: a smile blooming on Kurt’s face, the moment dragging on, and when Blaine finally took his hand back Kurt felt it still, lingering against his skin, imprinted on his heart.

*******

As the weeks passed, their relationship slowly resumed the patterns it had once followed.  In addition to their twice weekly study dates, there were double dates on the weekends and after Glee club, frequent texts and the occasional phone call, shoulders brushing in the hallways and as they lunched together in the cafeteria.  Quinn watched them with a knowing sparkle in her eyes.  If she felt any lingering loss from what was happening, she hid it well.

Impercipient as he often was, even Finn was beginning to take note of the affection between them—not more, but somehow amplified from what it had been before.   They hadn’t spoken about it, but there was support and acceptance, genuine happiness in the way Finn smiled at them, the way he made an extra effort to bond with Blaine, would clap them both too-firmly on the shoulder.

Finn and Quinn were actively shielding them, too.  Kurt wasn’t sure if Blaine was aware of it, the way that Finn would reach for his hand and Quinn would twine her arm through Blaine’s whenever their affinity drew the attention of others.  People watched them now, some with open curiosity, some with suspicion.  But he and Blaine both had Fabs, so unless they did something truly stupid, they were safe.

Not that there was anything going on between them.  It’s just that Kurt almost forgot that sometimes; he had to remind himself that they were only friends.

They never talked about the party.  They never talked about The Kiss.

For once his life was peaceful, almost perfect, Kurt thought. 

Except for Rachel.

It shouldn’t surprise him that the girl was persistent, popping up at the most unexpected moments to try to talk to him, catch him off his guard.  Kurt didn’t understand why it was so important to her to patch things up between them.  Maybe she didn’t trust his silence the same way that Finn did.

On several occasions, he nearly went to Finn to ask him to call her off.  But Kurt didn’t want to do that; Finn had been so great about everything, was so great to _him_ , and he didn’t need to be a part of this.  He deserved to have love without it threatening his loyalty to his Nat, especially now that Kurt knew love, too.

Or he almost did.  Some days he tiptoed so close.  Some days they danced on the edge, the space between their hearts so narrow that Kurt could hear it, smell it, taste what it might be if there were none.

Today they were in Blaine’s room, sprawled on Blaine’s bed on their stomachs with their laptops open, Kurt’s socked feet in the air occasionally brushing against Blaine’s bare ones.

“What’s the deal with Rachel?”

“I’m sorry?” Kurt said, startled.

“She seems oddly fixated with you.  It’s strange—you used to hate each other, but now she pursues you and you pretty much just ignore her.”

Kurt sighed.  He wanted to tell Blaine, really he did, but… given where they stood now, it didn’t seem the right secret to share.

“We were kind of friends, this summer,” he offered instead, eyes fixed on his keyboard.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re friends now.”

“That would be accurate,” Kurt said with a huff.  “We, umm… I found out she was just using me, and we had a falling out.  She’s been trying to patch things up, but I’m not interested.”

He expected Blaine to agree with him, maybe even to sympathize, but instead he looked thoughtful.  “I don’t know,” he said eventually.  “She seems pretty invested to me.  Sometimes I think people underestimate Rachel.  I think maybe she’s just lonely.”

 _Not anymore_ , Kurt thought to himself.  “Maybe.  But… just leave it for now?  Please?”

Blaine’s face broke into a warm smile, his fingers curling around Kurt’s bare forearm and squeezing, little pressure points of pleasure that made Kurt shudder.  “Of course,” he said.  “It’s none of my business anyway.  I’m sorry I asked.”

Something about Blaine in that moment caused Kurt to look up into his eyes, as if he were drawn there.  “Don’t be,” he whispered.

_I want to tell you so much.  I want to tell you everything._

*******

Kurt had no intention of taking Blaine’s words to heart, but they stuck with him anyway, making him feel almost guilty each time he gave Rachel the cold shoulder. 

It was Finn who finally pushed him to reconsider.

“Dude,” he said, barging into their room one afternoon after the brunette had left.  “We need to talk.”

Kurt winced, not bothering to look up from his magazine.  “You know I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry,” Finn said absentmindedly.  “It’s just that Rachel—could you put that thing away and look at me, please?”

Kurt huffed, carefully tucking a spare piece of paper between the pages to mark his spot.  He looked up at Finn, belligerent.  “Yes?  What complaint has our diva issued today?”

“She hasn’t said anything!  Not one word against you, Kurt.”  He took a seat on the edge of Kurt’s bed, and Kurt sat up, folding his legs beneath him.  “But she was crying today.”

“Of course,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t… don’t be like that, Kurt,” Finn pleaded, visibly deflating.  “This is the first afternoon we’ve seen each other in two weeks, since you and—since Blaine.”

Kurt was silent for a time, pondering this.  It was one of those moments when it was so tempting, would be so easy to abuse his role as Finn’s Nat, and no one—least of all Finn—would dare fault him for it.

He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, and met Finn’s eyes.  “No, you’re right.  I’m sorry.”

“She’s really trying, Kurt.  She thinks you’ve changed your mind, that you’re trying to keep me away from her.”

“What!  That’s ridiculous!”

“Think about it from her eyes.  You haven’t spoken to her for weeks outside of Glee practice or when Burt and Carole are home.  I’m suddenly unavailable all the time, and I can’t exactly tell her why…”

“No.  No, Finn, I get it.  It looks bad.”

“She misses you.”

“I…” Kurt hesitated, Blaine’s words playing in his head, and swallowed hard.  “I don’t think I can forgive her.”

“You forgave me,” Finn said quietly. 

Kurt stared down at his hands, picking at his thumbnail, bitten to the quick.  “It’s not the same.”

Finn’s hand slid between his, prying them apart and taking one in his own.  A rare gesture for him, and it only made Kurt feel more guilty, and where was that coming from?  He didn’t want it, not that feeling.  Not about Rachel.

Kurt took his time, spinning the excuses around in his head, discarding them reluctantly, one by one.  “I’ll do better,” he finally said.  “I’ll make sure you have at least one afternoon a week.  Tell… tell Rachel that I’m sorry; I’ve been busy and time’s gotten away from me.”

“And you’ll talk to her?” Finn prodded hopefully, “or at least listen?”

“Maybe,” he said. 

  1.   Eventually.



*******

There were moments, so many moments, when Kurt almost made a move.  He wanted Blaine to move first, but he wasn’t sure he had any right to expect that.  Blaine _had_ moved, over six months ago now, and as soon as the headiness of shared want ~~and love~~ had passed, as soon as reality had settled, Kurt had thrown it back in his face.

He collected courage, gathering slowly as grains of sand, with every look shared between them, every loaded touch.

Then one day they were lounging in Kurt’s room, quiet until Kurt made one of his trademark sarcastic quips about the book they were working on, and he hadn’t even planned it, hadn’t thought about it, really, because Blaine was a safe place to just open his mouth and let _Kurt_ pour out, but Blaine…

Blaine laughed, his head falling back and his mouth falling open and his sparkling topaz eyes crinkling at the corners, and Kurt’s breath caught in his throat, his chest seizing up.  He was frozen, and he couldn’t _not_ move anymore.

“I’m asking,” he said, breathless, no intent and all the desire in the world.

Blaine nearly choked as he tried to stop laughing, attempted to speak.  “Asking… asking what?” he finally managed.

“You told me, before,” Kurt said, scooting across the bed on his knees until he was right in front of Blaine; they were face to face, Blaine’s warm breath ghosting across Kurt’s nose and his cheeks.  “If I ever wanted you to kiss me again, that all I had to do was ask.”

Blaine’s expression froze, his fuzzy eyebrows shooting up as his eyes went soft and heavy at the same time, perfect pink lips just-parted, and Kurt tried not to stare at them.  “Kurt…”

“I’m asking, Blaine,” Kurt said, surprised when he didn’t stutter on the words.  “Please… please kiss me.”

And Blaine did.

It was everything the first time was and more—fierce and determined, intense and passionate and yet soft, considerate.  Kurt thought he was drowning, Blaine’s arms sure and steadfast when they closed around him, pulling him close, dragging him under, and he could do nothing but submit, give himself over to the experience.

They parted with a lingering breath between them, eyes locked, lips brushing, and Kurt thought of Finn.

He thought he’d known what want was.  He remembered back when he first got Finn, spending hours pondering what it might be like to kiss him, if he _should_ kiss him, trying to muster up the courage.  When he finally had, it had been… nice.  Gentle, and easy, and comforting.  He hadn’t really wanted more, had been scared to want more until that one night…

And after that night, the guilt.  The guilt that wasn’t worth the orgasm.  After that night he had known, really known, that whatever was between him and Finn wasn’t quite what it was supposed to be.  That it never would be.

When Blaine had come along, what he’d wanted most of all was a friend.  Someone to _like_ him, to put effort into being around him.  The more Blaine gave the more addicted Kurt became, and he’d slid into daydreams of Blaine’s lips and his arms and, eventually, sheepishly, his body, without really realizing what had happened.  He’d spun the desire in his mind, the feeling, touching himself in the shower, mouth open and falling brokenly and unashamed in the privacy of his own head…

Blaine’s kiss—the first one—had been a sharp, drunken thrill, a pleasure he seemed only to truly recall in fits of dreams.

This one was surrender.

He surged forward, rolling Blaine onto his back, dipping down again and again and again, lingering and taking and still so, so hungry.  When Blaine’s lips couldn’t sate him he moved on to skin; rough with stubble at Blaine’s jaw, smooth and tender and sweet at the dip of his neck.  Blaine writhed and moaned and his hips bucked up, and suddenly there was something new, better, even _more_ —Blaine’s body pressed fully into his, hard and giving and throbbing just where Kurt’s was.

Kurt groaned, tried to gather himself enough to open his eyes, and when he managed it Blaine was staring up at him, his gaze a reflection of every emotion pouring over from Kurt’s heart.  Blaine reared up and kissed him again, the messy hot wet swipe of his tongue on Kurt’s lips, then his cheek, then just below his ear, embodying the passion Kurt had once been afraid to own.

He lost himself for seconds or minutes or hours in the movement of their bodies, in Blaine’s chest heaving in sync with his, clothing askew and hands on warm skin and it was the _best thing ever_.  In the long, heady moment when everything seemed to spin completely out of control, Blaine took Kurt’s hand, swallowed the cry he couldn’t stop, threw his head back and bared his throat and allowed them to fall together.

Afterwards there was no guilt.  There was peace, and soft kisses, and when Kurt’s logical mind returned and cautioned _way too fast_ , he was able to curl around Blaine’s body and push those thoughts aside, so content that he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Eventually and reluctantly they parted, slipping in turns into the bathroom, Blaine clutching borrowed underwear and blushing in a way that Kurt had never seen another boy blush.  And they came back together, and they talked about everything and nothing of any great importance, and they fell back into kissing again, both refusing to look at the clock.

“Wait,” Blaine said, pulling away.  “We’ve… we know with Quinn, but what about Finn?”

Kurt reached for his hand, wanting to stay connected.  “There’s a difference,” he said, “between loving someone and being in love.”

Blaine took a deep breath.  “So you…”

“Finn’s in love with Rachel,” Kurt blurted out.

“Oh,” Blaine said, sitting back against the headboard.  “That’s… wow, I…”

“You can’t tell anyone!”

“Of course not,” Blaine said immediately, squeezing Kurt’s hand.  “Of course I would never.  But, so wait…”

“Yeah, umm.  That’s what Rachel was using me for.”

“Oh,” Blaine’s face fell as he absorbed the information.  “Oh, Kurt.  I’m so sorry.”

Kurt shook his head.  “It hardly matters now.  We’re… working things out.  Or I plan to.  Soon.”

“You shouldn’t have to, not if you don’t want to.  I didn’t know when I said that.”

“I do have to, though.  Or I want to.  For Finn.”

Blaine nodded, accepting this.  “That isn’t what I meant though.  I meant… how in the world did that happen?  I mean, with you and Finn…”

Kurt looked down at their hands.  “They told me they could program him to be… you know.  But I guess something must have gone wrong.  He’s totally straight.”

Blaine licked his lips, still lost in thought.  “So how did that—how did that work?  Did you…”

Kurt laughed, leaning forward until his forehead fell against Blaine’s.  “Not nearly as well as it’s been working with you.”

*******

Kurt knew he’d tell Finn, and then probably Rachel would know, and eventually his parents.  But there was one person he had to tell first.  It gnawed at him, wanting to get out, and he wasn’t sure it was a smart decision, but something within him made it impossible not to tell her.

On Sunday afternoon Mercedes came over with a tray of her trademark brownies, kissed his cheek and asked her customary “how’s the love life, Boo?” once they were settled.  ( _You have to promise to keep me in the know_ , she’d told him all those years ago, after their falling out.  _I’ve no choice but to live vicariously through you._ )

Usually there was nothing to tell.

Mercedes came over every Sunday and they did the same things they’d always done, all the things they both loved.  But it was only Sundays.  In Glee club, Mercedes had drifted into a bond with Unique and Marley as Kurt had drifted closer to Blaine.

They didn’t talk about it, pretended it wasn’t there, but surely Mercedes, too, could feel the gulf widening between them.  They still loved each other, but their Sunday visits felt rather like a college student dropping in to see their family, a half-way point that would inevitably fade into increasingly greater distance.

But they would always be family.  They would always be connected.

They didn’t talk about it.

Today Kurt talked about Blaine, lying on his bed with his head in Mercedes’ lap, letting her fingers comb through his hair.  She smiled and cooed and said all the right things, swore her secrecy even though Kurt didn’t really need to hear it.

When she was gone, Kurt allowed himself to ponder, for the first time, what it might be like to miss her.

*******

Not quite two weeks had passed when Rachel found out, and Finn found out, because Kurt hadn’t managed to bring himself to tell him yet.

They hadn’t needed to tell Quinn.  She had taken one look at them the day after, and she knew.  And maybe Blaine talked with her about it; maybe she was the one who knew all of Blaine’s ( _their_ ) secrets, as Mercedes knew all of Kurt’s.  Kurt knew they were close, but he’d never bothered to ask Blaine what that meant.

Kurt had kept his promise.  He’d given Rachel and Finn their one day a week, but he chickened out on the rest of it, making himself scarce, barely acknowledging Rachel past a nod when he answered the door and ushering her out before Burt and Carole were due home.  He didn’t want them to ask her to stay for dinner.  He wasn’t scared of Rachel; he simply hadn’t been in the mood to deal with her.

On this particular day, the plan had been for Kurt to go to Blaine’s house for their ~~study~~ date, but Quinn told Blaine at lunch that she was having Maria over, so they decided to meet at Kurt’s house instead.  Finn had an emergency football practice, so they would be alone.

But when they arrived at the house after lingering for a time at The Lima Bean, both with a second cup of coffee in hand, they were greeted with the unpleasant and shocking sight of Finn and Rachel, legs entangled and lips attached on the couch.

Kurt’s mouth fell open, rage bubbling up in his chest, but in spite of the energy the emotion gifted him, he couldn’t come up with a thing to say.

Nor could Finn, it seemed.  Nor, for once, could Rachel.

This was not their “day”.  He wondered how many “days” they’d actually been having.

In the heat of the moment, he forgot that Blaine’s fingers had slid into his the moment the door had closed behind them, didn’t realize he was now gripping too tight to his hand.

“Before you guys freak out,” Blaine said, the calm amid the storm.  “You should know that I already knew, and I haven’t said anything, and I swear that I won’t.”

Rachel looked like she was about to cry, but Finn only looked surprised, and maybe a little bit hurt.  “Kurt,” he finally said, gesturing between where Blaine and Kurt were standing.

Kurt looked down.  “Oh.  Oh… Finn, I swear I was going to tell you…”

He tried to let go, but Blaine held fast.

“You won’t tell, Rachel, will you?”  Blaine asked, eyes sincere and brave, fixed on hers.

“Well,” Rachel said, finally appearing to get her bearings.  “Well, I…”

Kurt’s jaw felt rigid, and it was all he could do to pry it apart to speak.  “What is it you want?  What will keep you quiet?”

“Kurt…” Finn said again.

“Well?”

 She moved her eyes from Blaine to Kurt, Blaine to Kurt, eventually settling on Kurt. 

“I’m not a monster!” She declared, quietly and passionately.  “Kurt, why would you think…?”

Blaine’s hand abandoned his to trail up his arm, squeezing his bicep reassuringly.  “I can leave you three to talk,” he said softly.  “I can…”

“No,” Kurt said, scrambling blindly to grab onto him in return.  “No, stay.  Please.”  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowed Blaine’s presence to ground him.  When he opened them again he felt calmer—hopefully looked it, too.  “We need to work this out.  Rachel, I’m—“

“No, _I’m_ sorry!  All I’ve wanted for months was to apologize, Kurt, and for you to not even hear me out…” She sniffled, eyes watering, and Finn put his arm around her, tugging her close.  Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes, the sickening feeling of guilt playing at the corners of his heart.  “I know what I—what we did was wrong.  I know.  And I’ll admit, a part of me loved the drama of it, but Kurt… I wasn’t faking my affection for you.  Maybe at first, but… the truth is I’ve never met another person, another _natural_ person, who’s matched even a quarter of my epic love and admiration for Barbra or Liza Minnelli.  I really… I really liked being your friend, Kurt.”  She looked down at her hands, then finished softly, “And I miss you.”

“We’re all breaking the law now,” Finn said, turning his gaze from Rachel to Kurt.  “We’ve all lied and kept things hidden.  Don’t you think it would be better if we helped each other, worked together?”

“Finn…” Kurt said, his eyes feeling suspiciously moist.  He slid his hand down to once again twine his fingers with Blaine’s, glancing over at his lover (lover.  _Lover!_ )  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Before he knew what was happening, Rachel was squealing, flying into his arms, Kurt’s coffee nearly spilling down her dress.  Blaine caught Kurt’s eye over her shoulder, and grinned.

*******

In the days and weeks and months that followed, even the danger that lingered in every glance and touch and kiss between them was thrilling.  The love bloomed in Kurt’s chest as quick and bright and fierce as the spread of blood, so intense and desperate and inevitable and _right_ that Kurt found himself unable to entertain the knowledge that what they were doing was wrong.

There were moments, though rare and fleeting, when Kurt hated himself for not having this with Finn, for being utterly unable, he knew now, to have what he shared with Blaine with Finn.  He hated himself for thinking it, but Finn had always felt off to him in the same way that all Fabs had always felt a little off, and in other ways too.  And Kurt loved his father.  God, he adored his father, couldn’t fathom life without his father; his father was his hero.  And he would never mistreat a Fab, never treat them as less or think of them as less than human beings, equally deserving of respect, but if he was honest…

There was something more _real_ about Blaine.  Something more solid, more tangible, some comfort in the knowledge that he and Blaine were both _meant_.  They weren’t planned and calculated and manipulated into being what they were; they simply were.  They had grown in their mother’s wombs, thrived there, traveled out into the world a revealed, divine mystery.  They had matured from tiny, helpless infants, had wrestled with the uncertainties of life to become who they were; they were _meant_ to breath this air, to walk this ground, to survive and to perish on this Earth.

Sometimes when Blaine was so close to him that their breath mingled, their chests pressed together and their hearts pounding and their fingers intertwined, when Blaine spoke softly into Kurt’s ear, brushed his lips against Kurt’s skin, stared at Kurt with such perfect, open adoration in his beautiful hazel eyes, Kurt thought that maybe, just maybe, they were meant to be together, too.


	11. Rachel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly a year, I know, and I am so, so sorry. I had writer's block with this fic for a very long time, and I wasn't crazy about the idea of posting again and then making you wait another six months, so... now, I can come back and tell you: this fic is finished. It is almost entirely beta-d. Current plans are to post a chapter a week through the end, although I can't make any guarantees about the exact date and time.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who are coming back, who are sticking with me!

_Part Eleven – 18 – Rachel_

_Winter, Senior Year_

For as long as she could remember, Rachel’s world had been comprised of two kinds of people: those who were stars (or were destined to be,) and those who weren’t.

She’d never been given a choice as to which category she fell into, but she couldn’t honestly say she’d ever wanted one, either.  She was a product of two very driven, talented men, and the biological daughter of one of Broadway’s leading ladies.  She was Rachel Berry, and someday that would be introduction enough.

Nothing mattered more in the Berry household than success. 

Her fathers, LeRoy and Hiram, were very much in love, and were among the last of those who managed to marry before the fabrication laws made such a match impossible.  They both joked quite frequently and freely about how much better off they’d be if they had gotten to custom design their own mates, as Rachel had.  She knew they meant it.

Rachel was destined to be a star, and with that came a lot of luck.

She was lucky that her fathers had been able to save a substantial sum of money, travel to New York City and track down Idina Menzel herself.  She was lucky that after attending a full week of successive shows—each night braving the long line to greet the Broadway star—Ms. Menzel had agreed not only to meet with them, but ultimately to provide them with the egg they sought free of charge, so impressed was she with their dedication.

After that, it was a simple matter to locate a willing surrogate.  The money they had saved to pay Rachel’s mother was instead put aside for her future Fab.  A week before she started high school, it was used to purchase Jesse.

Jesse was state-of-the art perfection… at least in terms of performance aptitude.  Careful selection and the handsome sum her dads had paid also assured he was suitably intelligent and attractive.

She had to hand it to them: they’d only forgotten compassion, empathy, and basic human decency.

Rachel was under no delusion that she possessed these traits in any notable quantity herself, but even she noticed after a time that something was seriously off about Jesse.  He was the perfect duet partner, the perfect lead in a dance or a show, and she was even reasonably sure he’d be a great lover, should she ever show the slightest hint of interest in that area.  But he wasn’t a good mate.  He wasn’t even a good friend.

At sixteen years old, Rachel decided a friend was something she desperately wanted.  Unfortunately, she soon learned that friends were something you had to _make_ , and not merely a commodity you could easily acquire.

“Daddy,” she said, approaching LeRoy one evening as he did the dishes.  “How do you make a friend?”

“A friend?”  Her father appeared taken aback.  “What do you need a friend for, sweet pea?  You’ve got Jesse.  And I thought you were rather popular in Glee club.”

“I am,” Rachel assured him, standing straighter and sticking out her chin.  “Of course I am; I’m the best they have… but I just thought it might be nice, you know, to have someone to talk to, maybe to watch musicals with and help me run lines and leave long, gushing comments on my YouTube videos…”

“Jesse does all that; doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts, sweetheart,” LeRoy said, drying his hands and taking her by the shoulders, pressing an exaggerated kiss to her forehead.  “Having too many friends just eats up your time.  That’s valuable time you need to invest in your future.”

“Yes, Daddy.  I understand.”

“Good.  Now go ask you father to set up the DVR, would you?  I feel like it’s time for a Tony marathon.”

“Sure.”  Rachel hugged him, grimacing over his shoulder.  She loved the Tony Awards, really she did.  She looked forward to watching them air each year.  But once you’d seen every showing from 1980 on at least ten times, they began to lose their luster.

*******

Rachel spent a lot of time that night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering which of her fellow Glee club members would make the best friend.  Tina was too emotional, and would try to steal her spotlight.  Santana was too mean, and would try to steal her spotlight.  Mercedes had too much attitude, and would try to steal her spotlight.  Kurt was a bit odd, and would surely try to steal her spotlight.

She sighed.  Maybe her dads were right after all.

*******

By the time Rachel reached seventeen, she had given up on finding a friend.

Finn wasn’t a friend.  He was an accident.

An unfortunate accident, one that brought her to life in a way that was often overwhelming.  She wasn’t accustomed to so much real emotion.  She could take praise, and she could handle constructive criticism, if she must.  But the way Finn looked at her like she was something shining and beautiful and special and precious just for _being_ , and not even for trying—that was something entirely and wonderfully different.

He was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to her.

He was dangerous.

She tried to rationalize it.  It was good to experience real love, would be useful on stage.  She knew so much more now than she had before.  Not only love, but fear.  Passion. 

She learned how to care—first for Finn, and later for Kurt.  Kurt had been a surprise.  They spent hours together, albeit under less-than-honest pretenses, and they had so much in common, and he didn’t ask her once to give up one of her solos, or even for her top-secret take-out-the-competition tips.

When she lost Kurt, she was devastated, and also… guilty?  The emotion surprised her, as did the humility that accompanied it.  Kurt hated her now—she was sure of it—but still: he hadn’t taken Finn away.

Then, even more miraculously, he forgave her.  And she had Finn, and she had Kurt, and she maybe even had Blaine, and she still had Jesse, and her dads.

Rachel’s life was rich and full in a way she never could have anticipated, and she was determined to do everything in her power to keep it that way.

Graduation loomed in the distance, taunting her, warning her.  But she had time.  She would find a way.

*******

Rachel lounged on the Hudson-Hummel’s couch, her head in Finn’s lap and her feet in Kurt’s.  Blaine sat on the floor between Kurt’s splayed legs, one hand wrapped around Kurt’s ankle.  Three of them were laughing as _Singing in the Rain_ played on the TV.  Finn merely looked confused.

 “But I don’t get it; can’t they tell that she’s like, _really bad_?”

Rachel tutted, and Kurt shot him a glare, and Blaine said kindly, “That’s kind of the point, Finn.”

“But I don’t get what the…”

“You’re sweet,” Rachel cut him off, cupping a hand behind his head and yanking him down for a kiss.  She’d figured out a long time ago that kissing was the most effective way to shut him up.  (She suspected he sometimes employed similar techniques on her, but couldn’t imagine why that would be necessary…)

They finished the movie, and Kurt glanced warily at the clock.  “We should have another hour,” he said.  “We’ve got some leftover tuna salad if you’re hungry,”—Blaine wrinkled his nose, and Kurt pretended not to notice—“or there may be a few of the brown—“

“Brownies?” Finn said, perking up like he hadn’t since the opening credits of the movie began to roll.  “There were brownies left?”

Kurt scowled at him.  “I hid some after I baked them yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Why would you hide the—“

“Brownies sound lovely,” Rachel said, speaking over him and kissing his brow in apology.  She wriggled her toes, then carefully swung her legs over Blaine’s head, hopping to her feet.  “Come on.  I want to talk to all of you anyway.  It’s important.”

“What’s important?” Kurt asked as they headed into the kitchen.  They watched as he opened the cupboard and retrieved a foil-wrapped plate from behind the oatmeal, Finn’s eyes widening adorably as the treats were revealed.  There were at least a dozen brownies on the plate, and Rachel and Blaine both hurriedly grabbed two before Finn got to them, Kurt carefully selecting a larger one for himself before nudging the plate across the counter in Finn’s direction. 

Rachel’s eyes glittered as she swallowed.  “College,” she answered.  “Of course.”

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look she couldn’t read, then Kurt’s eyes dropped down to the floor.  “I’ve applied to three schools in New York, two in Chicago, one in California, and one in Florida,” he informed the group.

Blaine reached out and curled a hand around his elbow.  “I’ve got applications in at Columbia, Brown, Carnegie Mellon, DePaul, and Ohio State—that’s my back up.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” Kurt whispered to him, and Blaine slid his fingers down Kurt’s arm, squeezing his hand.

“Not yet.”

“Well,” Rachel said, clearing her throat.  “I was thinking—we should all totally go to New York.”  She stole a worried glance at Finn, who was watching her with little interest, cheeks fat as he chewed half of his third brownie.

“Rachel,” Kurt said, his eyes sweeping over the others before settling on hers.  “That would be great, but there’s no guarantee…”

“Think of how great it would be!  We could share an apartment between the five of us—you’d be bringing Quinn of course, Blaine—and we could all split the cost.  I bet my dads would be willing to pay for at least half!”

“Rachel,” Blaine said more gently.  “What about Jesse?”

Finn stopped chewing.

“Oh, Jesse,” she said, laughing nervously.  “I forgot about him.  But I was thinking, you know, he could stay in the dorms.”

“They don’t let Fabs stay in the dorms on their own,” Finn spoke up, swallowing thickly.

“Well, I…”

Finn shuffled closer to her, their bodies nearly touching.

“Maybe you and Jesse could get a separate apartment?” Kurt suggested reasonably, sounding unsure of himself.  “He knows we’re friends, right?  I mean, he knows you’re here with me right now.  It could work the same way while we’re there, except without the risk of parents…”

Rachel absently placed her remaining brownie on the table, staring as her fingers twined and untwined and twisted together.  “Jesse has remedial voice lessons three days a week, for three hours after school.  I insisted on it.  I told my dads I didn’t think he was on par with me yet.”

“Well, surely—“

“They all think I stay after school to practice with the acoustics of the auditorium.  My dads, umm… they don’t really appreciate the whole friend thing.  They think it gets in the way.  Not that I’m not _allowed_ to have friends, I mean, you know with the party… They want me to be popular, but they just—”

Finn’s large body folded over hers, his hands smoothing soothingly through her hair.  “It’s okay, Rachel,” he said.  “We all get it.”  Kurt caught her eye and nodded, and Blaine offered up a sad smile.

“It would be nice,” Kurt mused, side-eying Blaine and reaching for his hand.  “All of us in New York.  We can plan on that.  We can find a way to make it work.”

Blaine smiled at him and kissed his cheek.  “We’ve got time, Rachel.  But that’s a wonderful idea.”  He turned to Kurt.  “It’s not too late yet; maybe I can send in a few more applications.  There’s a lot of great schools there.”

Kurt nodded and tugged him close, and then…

They all heard the doorknob rattle and jiggle.  Acting on instinct, they quickly sprang apart, just before Burt appeared in the doorway.

“Hey kids,” he said, tossing his ball cap onto the counter and snatching a brownie, “Rachel, Blaine.”  He nodded at them both in turn.  “Slow day at the shop.  You two staying for dinner?”

Rachel reluctantly shook her head, knowing how difficult it would be to come up with another viable excuse to placate her dads.  She saw that Blaine did the same.

“Some other time, then,” Burt said easily.  “Say Blaine—where’s your girl?”

“With friends.  But she’ll probably be home soon, so maybe… maybe I should head out.”

He stole a little glance at Kurt, and Rachel saw their fingers brush, once, twice.  Discreet, something Burt would surely miss.  She wished she was brave enough to try something like that with Finn when there were people, when it was daring, when it would mean telling the world something akin to _I don’t care_.

Instead she threw her arms around Kurt, pecking his cheek.  “I better take off too.  Thanks for the brownies.  Rogers and Hammerstein next week?”

Kurt smiled.  “You got it.”

“Count me in,” Blaine said.

Burt frowned.  “Shouldn’t you boys be studying?”

“It’s fine, Dad,” Kurt rolled his eyes.  “We’ve got the project under control.”

“Well alright,” Burt accepted.

“Thank you, Mr. Hummel,” Rachel said politely on her way to the door, wishing such a simple encounter didn’t feel so awkward and scary.  “See you in school, Kurt, Blaine, Finn.”

“Bye, Rachel,” Kurt called after her.

She faintly heard Blaine echo the sentiment, but her heart was focused on the heavy feeling of Finn’s eyes, following her out the door, a phantom presence all the way home.

*******

“Don’t freak out,” were the first words Kurt said to Rachel the following Monday, pulling her into a dimly-lit corner by the janitor’s closet.  Despite their intent, they sent a sharp spike of fear firing up her spine, tingling through her limbs.  “Dad knows.”

“He… he what?”

“He knows.  Carole too.  For a long time now, I think.  But Rachel: it’s okay.  They were supportive.”

“He knows about me and Finn?” she asked in disbelief.

Kurt nodded.  “And Blaine and I.”

“And they don’t care?”  Her voice sounded small and lost to her own ears, almost unrecognizable in contrast to the confident presence she usually projected.

“No,” Kurt said, smiling, shaking his head.  “No, they don’t care at all.  They’re happy for us.  Just—just worried.  They did warn us to be careful.”

“That’s… good,” Rachel said, still processing.  She forced a smile she didn’t quite feel.

Kurt took both her hands in his.  “Rachel,” he said, “this is going to make things so much easier!  Just think of it.  And, um—I’m supposed to ask you over for dinner this Friday night, if you think you can manage it.  Blaine’s coming too, and I think he’s bringing Quinn.”

Rachel couldn’t help but grimace a bit at Quinn’s name: the beautiful Fab had never hidden her dislike for the brunette.  Rachel didn’t care, of course, but it still irked her that someone thought ill of her for seemingly no reason.  “I’ll do my best,” she said, mind spinning with a million and one worries over how she’d pull it off.  It was rare that she did anything without her parents, without Jesse.  They tended to eat and sleep and sing and breathe as one entity.  It had never felt stifling, not until now.

Kurt sighed, his eyes twinkling with happiness as they stared directly into hers.  “Find a way, Rachel,” he said softly.  “Finn’s really excited, just… I think deep down he was more worried than the rest of us about what we were doing.”

She nodded, squeezing his hands and then dropping them.  “I have calculus,” she said awkwardly.

“Right,” Kurt agreed, moving out into the fray of the crowd traversing the halls.  “See you in Glee,” he said, giving her one last pointed look over his shoulder. 

She watched him disappear, waiting and hoping to feel the same lightness in her heart that she suspected was now in his.

*******

“I need to ask you something,” Rachel said with forced bravado that night at dinner, trademark cheer in her voice and a smile pasted on her face.

“Oh?” Hiram said, careful setting his fork down on his plate.  “What is it, Rucheleh?”

“There’s a community theater thing going on in Westerville Friday night, and my friend Kurt—he’s in Glee with me—he has an extra ticket and wanted me to go with him.”

“That’s funny,” LeRoy said.  “I haven’t heard about any productions in the area this week.”

“What will you be seeing?” Hiram asked.  “I’m sure it’s not too late; I can try to get tickets for the four of us, and maybe your friend could tag along…”

“Oh.  Oh, no, it’s, umm… it’s something new.  He has a friend that’s putting her own show together, and it’s very rough right now, and he just asked if I could come along and give some feedback, you know, since I’m so talented and all.”

Her father sat back in his seat, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin that rested on his lap.  He fixed her with a look that Rachel recognized all too well: subtle and placating disapproval.  “Rachel, you know it’s very kind of you to offer your services.  But we talked about this.  You’re a very special girl, and there are people out there who would love to take advantage of that.  Plus, sweetie, you know that’s the night for our family sing-a-long—”

“Every night is a night for our family sing-a-long!” Rachel declared in frustration.

Hiram and LeRoy exchanged a look, Jesse’s eyes following the happenings with poorly-veiled interest.

“Listen,” LeRoy said at last, turning back to his daughter.  “If it’s really that important to you, sweetheart, then how about you take Jesse?  I’m sure he’d be a valuable asset as well, and he’d have your back, of course.”

Rachel groaned, struggling to keep calm.  She had to salvage this situation, if only for Finn’s sake.  He had been so good and kind and patient and self-sacrificing with her, and now it was time to pay a little of that back.  “Daddy,” she said to LeRoy, then turned to Hiram, “Papa.  I really just want to take this little trip with my friend.  I never spend time with my friends!  And I promise we can do the sing-a-long another time.  Saturday morning!  I’ll make brunch.”

“Well…” Hiram started, side-eying his husband.  “Well, I suppose—“

“Just this once, Rachel.  It can’t become a regular thing.”

Rachel nodded enthusiastically, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing.  “Of course; Iwon’t do this kind of thing too often,” she offered absently.  “My career comes first.  I know.”  She ducked her head, taking a moment to collect herself, then looked back up at her dads and said with more sincerity, “Thank you.”

The family went back to eating, and while Rachel finally allowed her excitement to bubble up inside, she couldn’t help but feel Jesse’s eyes on her, heavier and lingering far longer than usual.

*******

Dinner with Finn’s family was _fantastic_ … and not because there was anything particularly special or out-of-the-ordinary about the food.  It was the simple things that made the night extraordinary: being able to hold Finn’s hand openly, to speak to adults who acknowledged that they were a couple.

Burt and Carole were nothing like her own parents.  They listened as the boys prattled on about one thing then switched to something different, interested but never _too_ interested, never showing preference for one topic over another.  It ached, how free these boys were, free to be and do anything.

Rachel was destined to be a star.  But it would be nice, she allowed herself to muse for a moment, if it was a destiny she had chosen.

Finn squeezed her hand, offered her a soft smile that jolted her from her thoughts.

He would be it, she decided.  The thing, the person she chose, today and every day, if she could manage it.  She was Rachel Berry.  She would find a way.

The night ended too soon with a soft kiss at the doorway.  Carole was watching them not-so-subtly from the kitchen, but when Rachel met her eyes she winked before slipping out of view.  And things were good.  They were great, actually.

Then she arrived home, and minute by minute, word by word, her world came slowly crashing down.

*******

When Rachel got home, her fathers were at the piano as per usual, half-empty glasses of wine in hand as LeRoy played and Hiram danced around him, both of them singing.  The sight made her smile.  As much as she wished her parents could be different in certain ways, there were other things about her family she wouldn’t trade for the world.

Hiram spotted her first and held up a finger: wait.  He tapped LeRoy’s shoulder as he shimmied by, drawing his attention to their daughter, and LeRoy flawlessly transitioned to the end of their number, cutting it short.  She approached them, beaming, accepting both their hugs and pecking their cheeks in greeting.

“How was the performance, darling?” Hiram asked.  “I hope it was worth it; you missed a jolly good time here!”

“To my sincerest regret,” Rachel replied diplomatically, sweeping a hand to cover her heart for affect.  “But it was very nice, Papa.  Not at all as rough as Kurt implied, though of course _I_ could do it better…”

“Naturally,” LeRoy said with a smile.  “Well, you’re home now.  Your father and I were thinking of hosting another Berry Family Music Night, and you’re just what we need to rehearse this number—“

“Where’s Jesse?” Rachel asked, only now noticing his absence.  It was odd for the Fab to skip out on a performance, even if it was only in their living room.  It was even more unusual that her dads hadn’t insisted on his participation.

“He said he was sick,” Hiram answered.  “Just after you left, actually.  I think he’s been in his room all night.”

Rachel’s brow furrowed.  “I thought we had him specially programmed with an advanced immune system?  He’s never been sick before.”

Hiram shrugged.  “I’m not a doctor, Rucheleh.”

“You better go check on him, sweetheart,” LeRoy suggested.  “I guess we forgot.”

“Of course,” Rachel said, “and then I’m going to turn in.  But sing-a-long in the morning, yes?”

LeRoy smiled.  “I’m already looking forward to your Famous Berry French Toast.”  Internally, Rachel groaned.  That dish was a beast to make, but it was definitely worth it for her night with Finn.

She kissed them both goodnight and climbed slowly up the stairs.  Hopefully Jesse would be sleeping; she didn’t really feel like talking to him right now.

Jesse wasn’t in his room, oddly enough.  Rachel pulled his door shut quietly, padding over to her own room with her heels in one hand, dread beginning to pool in her stomach.  Sure enough, when she pushed open the door, there he was, lounging in her vanity chair.

“Jesse…?”

“Hello, Rachel.  Did you enjoy your evening?”

She frowned.  “The show was actually lovely,” she said.  “I thought you were sick?”

Jesse smiled that smile of his that had always made her vaguely uncomfortable, and shook his head.  “I don’t get sick, Rachel.  You know that, and so should they.”  He paused, looking her straight in the eye.  “I lied.”

Rachel unconsciously clutched at her stomach, feeling more nauseous by the minute.  “Why would you lie about…?”

“I’m a very good actor.  You’ve all made sure of that; haven’t you?  But I wouldn’t lie to your parents without a very good reason.”

Rachel waited, wishing fervently for some escape from the apprehension hanging thick in the air.

“I had a trip to make; one I’m sure we don’t want your fathers to know about.  I thought I’d take a drive and find out where the Hudson-Hummels live.  Imagine my surprise to see your car in their driveway—“  He stopped abruptly, chuckled, an apologetic smile on his face.  “That’s another lie; I’m sorry.  I wasn’t surprised at all.”

“We took Kurt’s car—” Rachel started to explain, but Jesse cut her off.

“Kurt’s Navigator was there too.”

Rachel wrapped both arms around her middle, feeling as though she were about to cave in on herself.  “You know,” she whispered.  “There’s no need to be so dramatic, Jesse.  Just… just tell me.”

“No need to be dramatic?” Jesse exclaimed in mock-surprise.  “Is this Rachel Berry speaking?  Drama is more _fun_ , Rachel.  But you’ve changed so much now that perhaps you don’t agree.”

“What do you want?” Rachel managed.

“You can’t guess?” Jesse said, finally dropping the façade.  Rachel wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.  “I want this to stop, Rachel.  You’re ruining yourself, and by extension ruining me.  Finn is nothing, nobody.  I’m pretty sure they got him from a _factory_.  He’s not worth whatever… whatever dalliance you’re having with him.”

“Finn’s a lovely person!  He’s kind, and compassionate, and yes, maybe not the brightest Fab in the factory, but he has so much heart, and the way he loves me…” she trailed off, unable to look at Jesse.  Tears pooled in her eyes.  Of fear or loss or shame, she wasn’t sure.

“That’s all very sweet,” Jesse said, “but I really don’t care.  You and me—we’re _going_ places, Rachel.  We’re going to be something.  You have a better chance of getting there with me by your side, and I’m not ashamed to admit that my chances are better with a Nat like you, with your fathers supporting us and pushing us.  Surely Finn isn’t more important to you than your dreams?”

Rachel tried to think about that, to compare the two, but her dreams were part of who she was, ingrained since conception into her very being, and she couldn’t imagine herself without…

But then Finn…

“Please don’t do this,” she begged.

“I’ll give you time,” Jesse said.  “I’m designed to be driven, not a monster.  You can have a few weeks.  But then I’m going to your fathers, Rachel, and you know they’ll take this straight to the government.  They’d get you off, I’m sure, but Finn…”

“Don’t you dare threaten him!”  Rachel said, the demand pathetic even to her own ears. 

Jesse just shook his head, calmly standing and walking to the door.  Rachel leaned against the doorframe, crying, and she turned her head away when he moved to tenderly kiss her cheek.  “I love you, Rachel.  Take some time.  You have a lot to think about.”

“You love me because you have to,” she ground out.

His only answer was a soft click as he closed the door behind him, and Rachel was finally, blessedly (painfully) alone.

*******

On Monday she wore her favorite outfit and a confident smile, marching straight over to Kurt’s locker.  Finn wasn’t there, though his locker and Kurt’s were of course side by side.  For once, she was grateful.

“Good morning, Kurt,” she greeted.

“Rachel!” he said with a smile.  “How was your weekend?”

She shrugged.  “Well, I’d have to say Friday night was the highlight…”

“It _was_ nice, wasn’t it?  I was surprised we didn’t hear from you after.  Finn and I did a double with Blaine and Quinn on Sunday…”

“That’s great,” Rachel said, and she meant it even though it hurt.  “It’s good that you can spend so much time together.”

Kurt caught her eye and touched her arm, his face furrowed in sympathy.  “It will get easier for you,” he offered.

She swallowed thickly, forcing herself to nod.  “So I was wondering,” she said.  “After Friday, I’d like to do something special for… for him,” she finished carefully, side-eyeing the hordes of students around them.  “Just the two of us?”

Kurt smiled softly.  “That’s sweet,” he said.  “He’ll really appreciate that.  When were you thinking?”

“Friday might be hard to arrange a second week in a row”—Kurt nodded—“so I was hoping… Saturday?  At my place?”  Her dads were going on a boat tour to celebrate their anniversary, and she was almost positive Jesse would be accommodating, given her decision.

“What about—?”

“It won’t be a problem,” Rachel assured him hurriedly.

“Okay then,” Kurt said, shutting his locker and looping his arm through hers.  “I’ll make it work!”

*******

Rachel bought a new dress for Saturday night, sparkling and stylish and Kurt-approved.  She planned a menu and tried it out on her fathers on Wednesday.  Jesse was especially pleased with the meal, complimenting her with sagacious eyes over his serving of steak.

Now the day was here, and Rachel wasn’t sure how to feel.  Dinner was coming along nicely, the cake was frosted and waiting on the counter, and she looked beautiful, if Jesse was to be believed.  He’d tried to steal a kiss on his way out the door—mostly for show, Rachel was sure—but now she was alone, fiddling with this and that as she waited for the doorbell to ring.

And then it did, and she opened the door, and Finn was standing there.  In a suit.

“Wow,” he said softly, staring at her.  “You look awesome.”

“Thank you,” she said, flushing.  “You do too.”

Finn smiled, dipping his chin in acknowledgement.  “Kurt made it.”

“He’s got talent.” 

For a moment they lingered there, eyes on each other and then on the floor, unused to being alone like this, with so much time stretching out before them.  Finally Rachel said, “You should come in,” and Finn shuffled through the doorway into the foyer.  “I made dinner,” she added helpfully, “this way.”

He followed Rachel down the hall and into the kitchen, ogling the house as he went.  She fetched the single, medium-rare steak she’d prepared from the warming plate, took the casserole out of the oven, placed it in a holder, and then shoved it into his hands, leading him from the kitchen into the dining room.

The candlelight flickered as they ate, mostly silent, their fingertips brushing where they met across the table.  “I’m really happy you’re here,” she told him sincerely, smiling and trying not to cry.  Why hadn’t they done this before, if it was so easy?

Finn was done eating before she was, and Rachel could tell he was antsy while he watched her finish, probably wanting cake.  But she had plans first.  She sashayed around the table with his eyes following her hips, took his hand and pulled him from his chair, into the living room.  With a press of a button, the music started—Barbra’s finest, but only the romantic songs, of course—and she made eyes at him, wrapped his hands around her waist.  “Dance with me,” she whispered, not caring when his movements were clumsy.

When _My Man_ came on she sang along, feeling for the first time in her life like she was flawlessly filling the role she was born to play.  There were no Broadway lights, but here with Finn, with his arms around her and his eyes on her and her cheek pressed against the steady thrum in his chest, she truly felt like a star.

The music finally stopped, and Finn kissed her, said _“I love you_ ” against her lips, and Rachel felt her heart begin to break, but she said it back anyway.

They were silent for a long time, and comfortably so, until finally Finn said, “cake?”

Rachel took a deep breath, took a step back, took his hands in hers and said, shakily, “I was thinking of something even better.”

She stood on her tiptoes, brought their lips together, their bodies following soon after.  It was trembling and awkward and far from a perfect performance, but Rachel was certain it was the best opening—and closing—night of her life.

******

Three weeks passed before Kurt managed to corner her, and then it was only because he had the audacity to follow her into the girls’ restroom.  Jesse, as it turned out, was a marvelous shield, but Rachel had known all along that his protection could only stretch so far.  She sighed, watching Kurt through the mirror, and waited for him to start.

“Rachel,” he said eventually, his glare shooting fire through her entire body, even when she closed her eyes.  “Why?”

“I…”

“Do you even know what you’ve done to him?  He came home after your special date _so_ happy, _so_ at peace—in a way I’ve never seen in him—and then day by day, you crush him.  Without a word, without any sign.  He doesn’t understand.  I’ve asked him a million times if something happened that night between you, and he—“

“What did he tell you?” Rachel said, cutting him off.  She wasn’t sure why, but it was important to her that Finn didn’t share what had happened between them with Kurt.

“Nothing,” Kurt spat out.  “He insists that nothing out of the ordinary happened, that everything was fine between you.  And then this.  Why, Rachel?  Why would you do that to him?”

She smiled, wistful, and finally turned to look at him.  “It was always going to end, Kurt.  Surely you knew that, even if he didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Kurt said through clenched teeth.  “Of course I—Rachel, you were just talking about college!  About us all going together!  Blaine put in four more applications just last week…”

“I was pretending,” Rachel said, smile still pasted on her face.  “It was a beautiful dream.”

“Rachel,” Kurt said, wrapping a hand firmly around her elbow and tugging, forcing her attention.  “Rachel, look at me.  What happened?”

She did it, looked right into his eyes, and something within her broke.  The tears came, then: hot and silent, trailing down her cheeks.  “It was Jesse.  Jesse knows.”

Kurt’s expression shifted from angry to troubled in a flash, his fingers tensing painfully around her arm.  “He…?”

“He followed me, that Friday we… He didn’t believe my story.  He saw my car at your house, and he… he knows.”

“Oh, Rachel.”

“He said he would tell my dads, that he’d get Finn arrested!”

“He’s a Fab.  Surely your dads would believe you over him?”

“Maybe,” Rachel said vacantly, then shook her head.  “Maybe, but… I don’t know.  And I can’t lose them, Kurt.  My dads, Jesse, my dreams… you have to understand that it’s been all I’ve known.  I don’t know who I am without them.”

“You’re not afraid for Finn,” Kurt snarled, suddenly looking vicious again.  “You’re just worried about yourself, aren’t you?  About your fame?”

“Kurt, no, I—“

“Don’t lie to me, Rachel!”  He squeezed her arm painfully then let it go, looking almost alarmed with himself.  “If it’s not that, then stand up to him!  My parents will help you, Rachel; there’s got to be a way!”

For one brief, precious moment she let herself consider it, had herself almost convinced.  But Kurt was right.  Ultimately, it came down to the fact that she was a coward.  She was afraid for Finn, but she was more afraid for herself.  She was afraid of the unknown, of losing everything, of losing _herself_.

“I’m sorry,” she said, staring into a sink.  “I just—I just can’t.”

“What will I tell him?” Kurt asked.

Rachel’s heart broke as she pondered what answer to give him.  Finn did deserve something, preferably something that would ease his pain rather than strengthen it.

She knew that with these words, she wasn’t just losing Finn.  She was losing a friend, many friends.  The only friends she’d ever had. 

There was no other way.

“Tell him,” she said at last.  “Tell him that I love him, but in this world it isn’t enough.”

Rachel Berry wasn’t a liar.  She was speaking the truth.


	12. Blaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a good bit of foreshadowing in this chapter...

_Part Twelve – 18 – Blaine_

_Spring, Senior Year_

When they had started—when it was young—everything had seemed so easy.  The most simple, exquisite miracle: the feel of Kurt’s lips sealing warm over his, of the soft skin of Kurt’s fingers entwined with Blaine’s own, of their hearts pounding in sync, blood racing with so much heat and desire and emotion.

Now it was just as precious, but it was also _hard_.

Everything had gone well for so long.  Quinn knew, and didn’t hate him, and kept his secret.  Finn had someone of his own.  When Kurt’s parents found out even that was a blessing—to have a place, a home, to be safe and open and free.

And then Rachel happened—or rather, Jesse happened to Rachel—and suddenly Blaine’s life with Kurt seemed made of the finest, frailest glass, ever-threatening to shatter.

Kurt felt it too, though his fear was cloaked in anger.  Blaine didn’t try to dissuade him from it, but he envied Kurt the energy of that passion.  He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but pity for Rachel… and Finn, of course.  For both of them.  He understood where Rachel had been coming from.  If Blaine’s parents were ever to learn of the true nature of his relationship with Kurt… well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

So Kurt ranted, and Blaine was silent, clinging.  He let Kurt’s hands fist into his shirt, let Kurt press him into the bed and paint bruises on Blaine’s body with his mouth.  For his part, he kissed Kurt a little more languidly, a lot sweeter, worshiping every inch of his soft, flawless skin as often as he was given the chance.

They didn’t talk about it, not for a long time.  They loved each other, and they let it stew. 

*******

In March, Blaine got a letter in the mail from Tisch School of the Arts.  It might have made him happy, if his mother hadn’t opened it first.

“What’s this?” she asked in that careful way she had, holding up a crisp, creased sheet of white paper.

Blaine shrugged, taking it from her hands.  As he scanned the words on the page— _would like to invite you to audition for the preliminary class of_ —his heart rose in his chest.  One quick glance at his mother and it plummeted once more.

“I didn’t know you applied to that one,” she said.

“Yeah, well… it was kind of last minute.”

“It’s an arts school.  You know how your father will feel about that.”

Blaine sucked in a deep breath but didn’t know what else to say.

“We’ll talk about it tonight at dinner,” his mother continued.

He squared his shoulders and gave a short nod, brushing past her to head to his room.

Once safely there, he sat on the bed and fingered his phone.  He wanted to call Kurt.  He _should_ call Kurt; they should talk about this, about what they were going to do now that Rachel was gone and her grand plan, presumably, was as well.  They could still go to college close together—Kurt and Finn, Blaine and Quinn.  Of course they could.  But it didn’t feel as safe, not anymore.

He had Kurt’s number up on the screen, his finger hovering over the send button when a knock sounded at his door.

“Yes!” he called, startled.

“It’s me,” said a familiar voice. 

Blaine let his shoulders sag in relief.  “Come in,” he answered.  “Please come in, my gosh…”

“I overheard,” Quinn said as she closed the door behind her, crawling up to curl into his side on the bed.  “I’m sorry.”

“Quinn,” Blaine said, turning to face her, smoothing his hand over the top of her head and down to brush over the flow of her hair.  He studied her face for a long moment, looking for what, he wasn’t sure.  Quinn’s expression rarely betrayed her emotions.  “I don’t know what to do,” he said finally, hushed and a bit desperate.

“What were you going to do,” Quinn asked, “if Rachel hadn’t shown herself to be a sniveling little coward?  You would still be here.  This still would have happened.”

Blaine took a moment to really think about it.  “I don’t know,” he said at last.  “I guess I hadn’t really thought that part out.  When I filled out those applications, I wasn’t really thinking about _them_.  Tisch is someplace Kurt applied, and you know I love performing, so… I didn’t worry about it, not at first.  I figured I could keep it hidden for a while, I suppose, and by the time they found out about the other schools I’d just… _we’d_ just… go.”

Quinn smiled, chuckled, but it wasn’t cruel.  “That was rather naïve of you.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agreed.  “I guess it was.”

“So let’s talk strategy,” Quinn said, scooting up on the bed until she was leaning against the headboard.  Blaine wriggled closer, pressing his head up against her stomach.  She huffed but begrudgingly worked her fingers into his curls, scratching lightly with her long fingernails again and again and again.  It was familiar, soothing, almost enough to make him smile.  “First, what does Kurt have to say about all of this?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine answered.  “We haven’t talked about it.”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Quinn said, irritated.  “And why not?”

Blaine sighed.  “You wouldn’t understand.  It’s just… easier.  To just be together.  I suppose we’re both a little in denial.”

“Only a little?”

“Maybe a lot,” he reluctantly admitted.  “I don’t know; we just… we just haven’t.”

“Okay,” Quinn said with deliberate patience.  Blaine watched her face, wondered just how quickly her mind was transitioning from one step to the next.  “Then: what do _you_ want?”

The answer was so easy, Blaine nearly laughed.  “I want him.  I’ve always wanted him.  I think I always will.”  He paused.  “I want a way for us to be together.  And safe.  And… I don’t want to lose you, either.”

Quinn smiled, but this time it was sadder, more nostalgic.  “I don’t want that any more than you do.  But Blaine… you know it’s not fair to expect me to stay like this forever.”

Blaine’s eyes widened, and he sat up abruptly, taking Quinn’s hands.  “Of course.  Of course not.  I want you to love, Quinn.  And be loved.  I don’t know how, but…”

Quinn’s smile broadened into something more genuine, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “Well, that’s not the problem for now, is it?  Here we go: you and Kurt.  How are you going to make it work?”

Again, Blaine took a while with his answer.  “I liked Rachel’s plan,” he eventually admitted.  “College.  Of course, that was the plan anyway, but… I’d never looked forward to it, not until Kurt was coming too.  It’s almost like I’d be braver, you know?  With him there, I think I’d be more likely to do something I wanted.  Not that I’m sure what that is.”

Quinn hummed thoughtfully.  “Do you want to go to Tisch?”

“Not if it’s going to stir the pot.  Dad won’t like it.  And I got into Columbia, so…  But I’m going to have to come up with an excuse for why I applied there regardless.”

“You can tell him you did it for me,” Quinn supplied.  “They have an arts program for Fabs, you know.  Columbia has other things but not that.”

“Is that something you want?” Blaine asked.  “I’m sorry; I never thought… I always thought you’d pick something more academic.  You’re certainly smart enough to qualify.”

Quinn flushed but shook her head.  “Maybe, but the opportunities for me are still so limited.  I’d have a better shot with the arts.  Maybe I could find a private school that would let me teach music.  I’ve always liked children.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said sincerely, pausing to see if Quinn would dismiss the statement.  For once, she didn’t.  “But I can definitely see you doing that, Quinn.  If it’s what you want.”

“I’d like to teach,” Quinn reiterated with a firmness that surprised him.  “If I could do anything, I’d… I think I’d go all the way, you know?  Teach high school, or even college.”

“You’d be brilliant,” Blaine whispered, letting her enjoy the moment.  His heart was breaking.  Fabs were barred from most of academia, and most definitely from teaching at universities.

Quinn was silent for a long moment.  “It doesn’t matter,” she said finally.  “Let’s… let’s just focus on you.  I can’t go anywhere or do anything without you, after all.  So, Tisch?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine said.  “I really don’t.  I’ll have to think about it.”

“You’ll have to talk to Kurt,” Quinn emphasized.  “And Blaine, you need to think about how it’s all going to work, if and when you get to New York.  Because it’s not going to be as simple as it was in Berry’s happy fantasy.”

He didn’t need to hear it, didn’t want to hear it, the fear creeping over him like the bitterest, dankest cold.  But it was there, it was real, and Blaine knew he couldn’t run anymore.  “Yeah.  Yes.  We’ll talk.”

“Right now?” Quinn said, her tone permitting only one answer.

He nodded.  “Yes.  I’ll call him now.”  Before she had time to respond, he wrapped her in his arms, cradling her close and inhaling the familiar smell of her shampoo.  “Thank you, Quinn.”

*******

Despite his promise to Quinn—and the fact that his father would be home in only an hour, expecting the family to assemble for dinner—Blaine wasted twenty minutes staring at the ceiling before he finally got around to dialing Kurt’s number.

“Hey,” Kurt answered in a cheerful tone, and Blaine could picture him, sprawled out on his stomach on his bed with his legs kicked into the air.  “Called to talk about this semester’s English assignment?” 

“Very funny,” Blaine said, trying to mean it.  “No, I called to talk about… about…” he swallowed the lump in his throat and thought of Quinn’s face, not an hour before.  “Kurt, what’s the plan for us?  Now that Rachel’s, well…”

It took forever for Kurt to answer him, so long that Blaine feared he’d hung up the phone.  “I don’t know,” he said softly.  “What do you want?”

  1. “I got an offer to audition in the mail from Tisch today.  Mom saw it.”



“That’s great, Bl—“

“Dad won’t be happy.  We’re supposed to talk about it over dinner.”  He glanced at the clock on his nightstand.  “…In approximately half an hour.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said.  “What are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know.  Quinn said I should say I applied for her sake—for the Fab’s program—but that doesn’t feel right.  I applied for you.”

“Blaine, if it’s not somewhere you want to go…”

“I don’t know where I want to go, Kurt.  I’ll figure it out eventually, but right now…” he paused, fisting at his bedding until his hand hurt.  “Right now, I just know I want to be where you are.”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt said.  “I want that too.”  He sighed.  “We should have talked about this sooner.”

“Yeah.”

“I—” Kurt began, and Blaine waited patiently as he seemed to stall out before continuing.  “I want to go to college.  With you, or near you.  I know I want to be a performer, or maybe a designer.  But I worry, is that… is that safe?”

“We’ll have Finn and Quinn,” Blaine pointed out.  “If we’re careful… they rarely catch people who are already attached.”

“That’s true,” Kurt said, “but it still happens.  And I know it’s selfish, but sometimes I wish we didn’t have to hide.”

“Me too,” Blaine agreed.

There was silence, the comforting sound of both of them breathing, stuttered, not quite in sync.

“Look,” Kurt said eventually.  “I have thought about this.  And I just think we should acknowledge that, if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to do it _safely_ —then we’re going to have to sacrifice for it.”

Blaine took a moment to let that absorb.  “Sacrifice what?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve thought of a few things.  The first thing is… you know, since we’ve taken so long.  We graduate in _three months_ , Blaine...”

“Yes,” Blaine said, a bit impatiently.

“Since we’ve waited so long, maybe we should just stay here for a year.  Buy ourselves some time to come up with a plan that’s solid.”

“I don’t like that,” Blaine said immediately, wishing his words had sounded less brusque the moment they were out.  “I mean, I can see your point, but…”

“My other point”—Kurt pressed forward—“is that maybe we shouldn’t stay here.  In the States, I mean.  There are other countries where the laws aren’t as strict…”

“Supposedly,” Blaine supplied.

“Supposedly,” Kurt admitted. 

“Kurt, it’s like, super hard to leave the country.  My Dad tried to take us on vacation to France when I was younger, and they refused him on the grounds of us ‘not exhibiting sufficient loyalty to America.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kurt said.  “Isn’t your dad, like, a lawyer for the state?”

“He is,” Blaine confirmed.  “But they’re scared that if people leave, they won’t want to come back.”

“So maybe that won’t work,” Kurt said.  “We’ll just… we can do what Rachel said: go to close schools, live off campus and share an apartment, the four of us.”

“That’s going to be hard to pull off without our parents getting suspicious,” Blaine said.  “It’s not exactly common for friends to show that degree of attachment.”

“Your parents, you mean.  Are they suspicious now?”  Kurt’s voice pitched subtly higher, but Blaine knew him well enough to recognize it as a sign of anxiety.

“No,” Blaine reassured him.  “No, not that I know of.  They’re actually happy I’ve made such a good friend at McKinley.”

“So we make it look like a coincidence, then.  We have similar interests.  And everyone knows we’re friends; it’s not completely unbelievable that we’d want to stick together.”

“They might not think so,” Blaine said, “but the government might.”

Kurt inhaled sharply.  “We can’t worry about that,” he said.

“We _have_ to worry about that!” Blaine countered, too-harsh.  Then, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.  You’re right.  So… we’ll just wait to see what the schools say, and we’ll go from there.  And we’ll keep brainstorming.”

“That sounds like the best we can manage for now,” Blaine agreed.  He wished they could do better.  “Oh and… there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Quinn wants a program for Fabs, so that might impact where I can go.”

“That’s understandable.  At least we don’t have to worry about that for Finn.  He’s going to graduate, but I’d be lucky to talk him into any further education.  I think he might want to be a mechanic, like my dad.”

“But you don’t want to stay here,” Blaine pointed out.

“No.  No, I don’t.”

Blaine fiddled with the edge of his pillow case, knowing where he wanted to go next but not at all sure how to get there.

“Kurt,” he said at last, hearing the shakiness in his own voice.  “Are you afraid?” 

Silence hung thick through the air around him.  “Yes.” Kurt answered eventually, voice so quiet it was nearly imperceptible.  “Aren’t you?”

Blaine nodded, then realized Kurt couldn’t see him and whispered in affirmative.  “Have you ever known anyone that was, you know?”

“No.  I’ve just… seen it on TV.  I mean, I know _of_ people.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said.  “Me too.”

“You know, there’s never any details”—Kurt spilled suddenly, as if he couldn’t help it—“I mean, they never tell you much!  Never, you know, what happens.”  He paused, and Blaine could hear the sharp inhale, exhale of his breath.  “I’ll understand, you know.  If you don’t want to risk—“

“Kurt,” Blaine interrupted.  “Of course I do.”

Kurt breathed in, breathed out more gently this time.  A sign of relief.  “I’m still scared.”

“Yeah.  Me too.”  It was a simple echo of his earlier phrase, but this time it weighed so much more.

*******

Blaine somehow managed to muddle through dinner that night, his parents buying his excuse about Quinn.  He offered her a grateful smile as he passed her the mashed potatoes, promising himself he would buy her something nice the next time he got his allowance.

His good mood continued from there.  Now that he’d spoken with Kurt—now that he knew they were at least on the same page—it was easy to bury the fear within him.  He happily turned all his attention toward their mutual goal.  Admissions letters began pouring in for the both of them, with a few more offers of auditions and rejections included, until finally they’d heard from every school they’d applied to.

On a Monday evening in mid-April, their spirits still high from the Glee club’s win at Nationals a few days prior, he gathered Quinn and Kurt and Finn together in his bedroom so they all could sort through their letters.  With any luck, they would find a place they could all agree on.

It seemed to work out almost too easily.  Kurt had gotten accepted to both Tisch and NYADA, so he was all set for New York, and Blaine figured both he and Quinn and his parents would be satisfied by Pace, though he had also been waitlisted at Columbia.  Blaine’s parents had agreed to pay an upcharge so that Blaine and Quinn could stay in one of the small apartments most schools offered for claimed pairs, and they all reluctantly agreed that it was best if Kurt and Finn stayed in one of the dorm rooms, at least for the first year or so, as a means to avoid detection.

It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed that everything just might work out.

*******

Now that they had a plan in place, Blaine’s mind was free to wander to… other matters.  This had both positive and negative repercussions.  He was better able to focus on his schoolwork and was free to daydream about the stolen moments he shared with Kurt, but it also led to more dangerous thoughts.  Like telling his parents about his relationship with Kurt.

The idea was so foolish that nearly a month passed without him mentioning it to anybody, but he couldn’t help but play it out in his head.  It was difficult to envision a scene in which his parents were accepting, but when he managed it, the fantasy made him so happy he could barely contain himself; he would find himself wandering to the piano and playing random songs to unleash the force of his joy. 

As he lost himself to the thought more and more, he slowly worked out the practicalities.  Maybe he’d do it in phases, rather than all at once.  Maybe he’d simply come out first and see how they took it.  Surely it wouldn’t be a complete surprise, at least not to his father.  The person who stood to suffer the most from his confession was Quinn, and she already knew.

Other times—mostly when he was feeling tired or a little down—the scene played out in his head very differently.  There was his father screaming and his mother’s disappointed look; his father’s dismissal and his mother’s tears.  On a few occasions, he toyed with the thought of violence.  Would his dad go there?  Was he capable of that?  The man had shown so little passion over the years that Blaine couldn’t be sure.

He went back and forth: he could really do it, and then no, he really couldn’t.  Shouldn’t.  He was well aware that his confession could ruin everything, could have repercussions far beyond those of his bleakest musings.  But now that it appeared he had everything else, he wanted this _so badly_.  It would be the final piece of the puzzle, the last frontier to total happiness… unless of course, someday, the law changed.

He couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself dream of that.

Finally he gathered his courage and brought it up with Kurt—

Who looked at him, stunned, and blinked.

“Well?” Blaine prompted, feeling impatient. 

“I don’t know, Blaine,” Kurt said slowly, peering at him over the pages of his magazine.  “You know them better than I do, but… is it worth it?”

About a dozen snappy retorts played in Blaine’s mind, but he swallowed them back, took a moment to think about his next words.  “I don’t know; I just… things seem so good right now, but I can’t help but think how much better, how much easier everything would be if they knew.  My Dad’s a powerful man, Kurt.  Maybe he could help us.”

“Maybe.  But would he?”

It hurt, being hit with the very same question he had been fruitlessly asking himself.

“He could hurt us too, Blaine.  You don’t even know how he’d react to you telling them you’re gay.  I mean, you told me what happened when you… when you got Quinn.”

Blaine nodded once, reluctantly.  “You’re right.  It’s a stupid idea.”

Kurt sighed and put down his magazine, scooting closer to Blaine on the bed.  His hand closed warm and solid over Blaine’s own.  “It’s not _stupid_.  I can’t fault you for wanting that, Blaine.  No one would.  I just don’t think it’s worth risking us.  But I suppose”—he took a deep breath—“I suppose it’s your decision.”

“I don’t want to lose this,” Blaine said after a beat of silence.  “I just… I see how it is with your family, and I know our parents have never been anything alike, but… I can’t help but want that too.”

“Do you think…,” Kurt began, “do you think they’d turn us in?”

“I don’t know.  I hope not.”  Blaine turned the idea over in his head, for the first time considering the question from a logical perspective and not merely an emotional one.  “I don’t think so,” he concluded.  “It would look bad for our family.  Dad likes to keep up appearances at all costs.”

“Then maybe it is worth it,” Kurt said, squeezing his hand.  “But I’m not the right person to judge that, Blaine.  I think you should ask Quinn.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, sucking in a breath.  Kurt was right, but asking Quinn was in fact the last thing he wanted to do.  He had a pretty good idea of what she’d say.  “I know I should; it just… it just feels a bit like pouring salt on the wound.”

Kurt nodded sagely.  “That may be true, but she deserves to have a say in this.  It could impact her too.”

Blaine wrinkled his brow, the corners of his lips turning down at the thought.  For all his careful deliberating, he’d never once stopped to consider how Quinn might feel about all of this—or worse, what his parents might do to her in response.  They loved Quinn; his father doted on her, so surely they would never…

He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it.  “You’re right,” he said, stretching over the mattress to peck Kurt’s cheek for emphasis.  “I should definitely talk to her first.”

Kurt beamed at him, kissing him sweetly on the lips instead.  Once he’d returned to his magazine, Blaine tried his very best to focus on his own reading, but the niggling, terrifying thought lingered in the back of his mind.

*******

He procrastinated for an entire week.  It wasn’t an easy time by any means, his thoughts much darker, his mood far more melancholy.  He stopped fantasizing but instead got very good at avoiding reality altogether.  Tolstoy and R. A. Salvatore were thankful, surely, but his friends and family most certainly weren’t.  He grew irritable, snapping at everyone for the smallest things—even Kurt on one particularly memorable occasion, and almost got his head bitten off for his trouble.

Quinn wasn’t any more patient, unused to his sour mood, but she was spared the brunt of it through his avoidance.  Finally she cornered him in the kitchen late one night while he was nabbing a bag of potato chips, insisting that they needed to talk.

“I’m fine!” he practically hissed, clutching the unopened bag tight to his chest.

“Blaine, you’re not,” Quinn said, calm as ever.  “After all these years, you should know it’s impossible to hide from me.”

“I’ve managed well enough so far.  Enough so that you’ve apparently resorted to stalking!  Let it go, Quinn.”

“I can’t, and I won’t.  Blaine, it’s my responsibility to—“

“You know how I feel about that!  But by all means, if you’re really so attracted to the idea of being my bitch, listen to me and _leave me alone!_ ”

“Do you want them to hear you!?” Quinn countered, stepping closer to him and looking him right in the eye.  They were very nearly the same height, and he was tempted to step backwards, give ground under her scrutiny.

“Of course not!  You’re the one causing this right now!  If you’d just go to—” his next words were muffled by Quinn’s hand sealing over his lips.

“This is what’s going to happen,” she said evenly through gritted teeth.  “We’re going up to your room, and you’re going to talk to me.  You’re not going to give me any bullshit excuses for your behavior.  I want the truth.”  She paused, glancing down between them.  “You’re also going to share those chips.”

She waited a long moment, maintaining eye contact, before slowly lifting her hand away.  “Fine,” Blaine practically spat.  She gave him a rueful smile.  He stalked past her, marching as quietly as possible up to his room, Quinn trailing behind him.  When he got there, he dove face-first onto his mattress, flinging the potato-chip bag to rest beside him.  He felt the bed dip and opened his eyes to find Quinn lying next to him.  “You’re going to let me eat on the bed?” he asked skeptically.

Her eyes narrowed.  “Just this once, and only if you talk.”

“Deal,” he said, sighing as he pulled himself up into a sitting position and reached to open the bag.  Remembering his manners, he offered it to her first, watching as she daintily selected and ate a chip.  She swallowed, staring back at him expectedly.  “I don’t know where to start…” he told her.

“Start with your abrupt personality transplant about a week ago,” Quinn suggested.

Blaine groaned.  “Okay.  The thing is, I got to thinking…”

“Yes…” she prompted with no small amount of sarcasm.

“I know it’s stupid, but… I was thinking of how great it would be if I told Mom and Dad.  You know.  About Kurt.  About… about me.”

She froze, a chip half-way to her mouth.  “Blaine, you _can’t_.”

“I know.  I keep—I keep trying to convince myself because I know what the reality of that is; it’s just… what if it isn’t?  What if we’re wrong, and they would actually be really great about it, and—“

“We’re not wrong.  We’re not wrong, Blaine, and telling yourself anything else is just a fantasy.”

“I know it would be a risk,” he said, looking at her pleadingly.  “I know; it’s just… Dad’s a lawyer, think of how much he could help us!  He could, I don’t know, get us papers or…”

“What kind of papers?  How would that help?”

“I don’t know!” Blaine said, frustrated.  “I don’t, I didn’t think that much into it; I just—”

“Clearly you didn’t,” Quinn said, her demeanor cold as ice.  “You never think, do you?  Not about anybody but yourself and your precious _Kurt_!”

“Quinn, I—”

“What do you think would happen?  Your Dad would just, what, poof, get rid of me, magically change the law so you and Kurt could go riding off into the sunset like this is some kind of—”

“ _Quinn_.”

“Some kind of fairytale!  You never think about me, do you?  You never think!”

“Quinn,” Blaine said, helpless.  “Quinn, I didn’t mean it like that.  You know I love you.  You know I—”

She sniffled, loudly, her face drawn tight, and Blaine could tell she was fighting to hold back tears.  “Did you even consider how humiliating that would be for me!  To have them know that I’m a failure, that I’m… that I’m not good enough for you.”

“Quinn,” Blaine said, flabbergasted.  “Quinn, it isn’t like that.  This… this _is_ about me.  I’m gay.  That means that I like guys, it doesn’t… it’s _never_ meant that you’re in any way unworthy.  You’re perfect.  You’re the best friend I’ve ever had!”

She laughed derisively, snatching the potato chip bag from his hands and setting it aside, shuffling until she was leaning back against his chest.  His arms folded around her on instinct, holding her there as he had so many times before. 

“If I was a boy,” she whispered.  “Do you think that you’d love me?”

Blaine held her tighter.  He had no answer.

“Never mind,” she said.  “It doesn’t matter.  What-ifs never do.”

“I’d never just _discard_ you, Quinn.  Not like that.  I’m sorry; it’s just—you’ve seen how it is with Kurt’s parents, and sometimes, even though it’s foolish, I just want that so badly.  Do you really… do you really think they wouldn’t accept me?”

“I don’t know.  I think they love you, but… there are so many risks in this world.  Everything’s so fragile that it’s hard to know what’s safe.”

Blaine nodded against the crook of her neck. 

“You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide.  I trust you,” Quinn said softly.

“Thank you,” Blaine murmured back. 

He wondered if she should.

 


	13. Mrs. Anderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with me! I planned to have this story completely posted by now, but due to feeling under the weather for the past month it's been a challenge to focus on writing or even editing. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a last-minute addition, but I feel it adds a lot to the story. If you feel so inspired, I'd love to hear what you think! <3

_Part Thirteen – Mrs. Anderson – 18_

_May_

She knew enough to know that she was lucky.  She had always known that.  Richard was a kind man for all his careful façade, and wealthy and well-regarded to boot.  Together they’d created two beautiful children.  She had their love.

It was better than many Fabs had, more than she should expect.

But she also knew—had always known—what she was and what she wasn’t.  The role she played.  And she knew that they never meant to hurt her, so she couldn’t be hurt.

There had been an article in _Good Housekeeping_ once that discussed how the emotional, social, intellectual, and physical capabilities of the fabricated had improved over time.  She was an old Fab, one of the very first.  It was normal that she couldn’t feel things past a certain threshold.

It was a comforting thing to believe, anyway.

*******

It was an ordinary dinner, like any other they ate together, religiously, at precisely 6:15 pm.  But her mother’s eyes noticed that Blaine seemed nervous, fidgety, noticed Quinn watching him carefully and touching him more than usual—her painted nails on his forearm, his shoulder, his hand, scratching through his hair.

And her husband seemed unusually energetic, also more attentive and kind.  Although she knew enough to be suspicious, she couldn’t help but enjoy the attention all the same, smiling at him sweetly as she filled his plate.  He smiled back, caught her hand, squeezed it.

They sat.  They ate.

“How is school, Blaine,” her husband began—always the same question.

He was always after the same answer.

“It’s good, Dad.  My grades are good.  Quinn’s too.”  He smiled, a little awkward and forced.  “Actually, though, I—I have something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

“That’s great, son!”  Richard exclaimed.  “I have news to share with all of you too.  Wonderful news.”  He waited until every eye was on him, then continued.  “I’m sure you’ve all read in the paper about the government’s recent allowances for expanding families.  I’m happy to tell you all that I’ve applied for us… and we’ve been approved!”

She stole a quick glance around the table, at her son and at Quinn.  They looked confused, Quinn a little worried.  The only thing she’d seen that sounded anything like that in the recent news was—

“That’s right; I’ll be taking on a second Fab!  I’ve put my order in today, and she’ll be here by next week.  Isn’t that fabulous, darling?” he asked, directing his gaze at her.  “I know how lonely you’ll be around here when Blaine leaves at the end of the summer, and she’ll be able to help you with the housework, too.”

She gasped, her chest tightening with a sudden, unexpected influx of feeling.  She had never been swimming before, and certainly not in a river, but she imagined this was very much what it must feel like: plunging with no hope, no control, into murky, icy water.

Her breath caught up in her throat.  _No no no no no…_   She swallowed.  She smiled.

“That sounds lovely,” she forced herself to say.  “I can’t wait to meet her, dear.  How considerate of you.”

A fork clanked across the table, snaring everyone’s attention.  “Mom, you can’t be serious,” Blaine said, his face warped in anger. 

“Excuse me?” her husband said.  “Your mother seems grateful, Blaine.  I would expect you to be more gracious as well.  We don’t tolerate outbursts in this household.”

“No,” Blaine said.  “No, you don’t tolerate a lot of things, do you?  I was so stupid to think you’d tolerate _me_ …”

“Watch your tone, young man.  What must Quinn think, seeing you behave this way?”

“I’d hope she’d think that I have some sense!”  Her son’s eyes twitched to hers, and all she could do was watch him, transfixed, as pity morphed there before quickly shifting back to rage—frustration—and he turned away.  “If Mom won’t stand up to you, I will.  This is wrong.  She doesn’t deserve this.  She’s done nothing but serve you faithfully all these years, done everything to make you happy, and now you’re just throwing her aside for some younger, prettier robot that—“

“Blaine, hush,” she broke in, but he only shifted to consider her sadly. 

“It’s wrong.  Surely you can see that!”

His voice was desperate, pleading.  She shook her head, feeling hopelessly lost to him… this boy she had birthed who was so strong now, so compassionate, and how had that happened?  Where had he learned it?

“May I be excused?” he asked.

“You may sit down,” Richard answered, jaw tense, “and finish your meal _calmly_ with your family.  You said you had something to share?”

“Never,” Blaine hissed, standing up, throwing his cloth napkin into his mashed potatoes.  “I will _never_ share anything with you ever again!”

He stormed off, Richard calling after him, and she sat there, watching, empty now.  If she closed her eyes, she could see it: the emotion draining out of her until she was still, pale, perfect.

Empty was a good way to be.

Quinn glanced between the two of them, then slowly rose and followed Blaine.

Richard turned back to his food.

*******

The rest of their meal passed in silence, her food like plastic in her mouth.  Neither child returned, but that was to be expected.  She cleared the table while her husband stood, strangely pensive, staring out the dining room window into the garden.  It was raining.

She went to the kitchen, mechanically did the dishes, walked back out into the living room to find he hadn’t moved.  He turned to her, the strangest expression on his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Startled, she could only nod.

“I’ve done right by you, haven’t I?  And by our children?”

“You’re a good father,” she assured him awkwardly, feeling terribly out of her depth. 

He sighed.  “I’m going to talk to him.  It’s past time for that.”

Again, she nodded, and it seemed to mollify him.  He stepped closer to her, kissed her cheek.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t ask him “ _what for?”_

She watched him disappear up the stairs, and after a time, on impulse, she followed.  There were voices coming from Blaine’s room.  Quinn stepped out, and their eyes met, lingered. 

Quinn brushed past her, went into her own room, and closed the door.

She tiptoed closer to where Blaine’s was still open, just barely, just enough so that she could hear if she dared to eavesdrop, if she was good at being quiet.

She was an expert. 

She pressed her cheek to the cool, stained wood, one hand on the knob to steady it, and listened.

“…like to hear what you have to say,” Richard was saying.

“I’m not telling you,” Blaine said, sounding very much as though he had recently been crying.  “It was a stupid idea to tell you in the first place.”

Her husband sighed.  “You know that… you’re important to me, Blaine.  I’d like to think you could tell me anything.”

She leaned a little closer, daring to peer in at them through the crack.  Blaine was shaking his head.  “I can’t tell you this,” he insisted.

“Then… maybe you’ll listen?  I have something I’d like to tell you.”

Blaine scoffed.  “If you’re going to try to talk me into supporting your new, robotic _whore_ , you can save your breath.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Richard said.  “Can I sit?”

Blaine rolled over to one side of his bed, clutching his pillow and settling it under his chin, making room but stubbornly refusing to look at his father.

Richard looked… awkward, out-of-place, a little loss.  It was strange, seeing him like this.

“I had someone once, you know, that I… that I cared for.  Before your mother.  Before Fabs.”  He paused, squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them again to consider his son.  “She looked like Quinn, actually.  I had Quinn made to look like her.  I know that’s… not what you might have wanted.”

Backing away from the doorway, she pressed her hand against her chest, her back against the wall, and reminded herself to breathe.  There had always been… _something_ there, something between them, but she’d never known.  How could she have known?

She allowed only a few moments to pass before she resumed her previous stance.  She waited, anticipating her son’s response, but none ever came.

Instead her husband continued, as if to justify, “It’s a hard world, Blaine.  I’m just… we’re all just trying to do the best we can.  But you’re a good boy.  You’ll be alright.”

Blaine had finally turned to consider his father.  She saw something shift in his eyes and wondered what he was thinking.  There was too much depth, too much understanding there, and for the first time, she worried that her son might confess his secrets.

It never happened.  Instead her husband rose, slowly, and made to leave the room.  She backed up—unsure what his reaction might be should she be discovered and unwilling to find out—when Blaine’s voice gave her pause.

“Dad!”  He sat up quickly on the bed, a hint of desperation in his voice.  His next words were rushed, heavy with fear.  “The woman you loved—what happened to her?”

She watched as her husband’s entire body tensed, his jaw twitching with it, before he slowly turned and walked back to the bed.  He paused, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, and carefully took a seat.

The first thing he produced from between the worn leather pockets was a faded picture, which Blaine took gingerly in hand… and gasped.  “She does look just like Quinn!  If you hadn’t said it, I wouldn’t have known that it wasn’t her!”  He traced a finger reverently around what she imagined to be the woman’s face.  “What was her name?”

Richard cleared his throat, but the name was still gruff when he spoke it.  “Dianna.  Her name was Dianna.”

“She was beautiful.”  Blaine handed the picture back, uncertain what else to say.

His father nodded in acknowledgement and switched the photo out for a second item of about the same size.  She watched her son examining this too, her own curiosity peeking. 

“Richard Anderson,” Blaine read.  “Official Enforcer for the United States Government, Office of Registry…”  He tore his eyes away from the small card to consider his father with palpable shock.  “Dad, what is this?  Please tell me it’s not—“

“It’s what it looks like,” Richard confirmed, forcibly prying the card from Blaine’s fingers and shoving it back into the folds of his wallet, almost as if the sight of it disgusted him.

Blaine stared at his father with wide eyes, watching as Richard closed the wallet, lifted his hips to slide it back into his pocket and folded his hands in his lap, shoulders slightly slumped.  It was the most defeated, the most submissive, she had ever seen her husband look.

“Dianna and I were a week from being married when the law went through.  One week and we would have been safe, you know?  One week that determined we were to be forced apart.”  He chuckled wryly, finally turning his eyes to Blaine’s own.  “I know this is hard for you to believe, son, but at that time I wasn’t so keen on following the rules.  Perhaps I’m not so fond of it even now, but certain things become habit, Blaine.  You learn that you have to behave in certain ways and then it becomes ingrained in you; then they’ve really got you.”

Blaine shook his head.  “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”

“The two of us were in love, you know?  I’ve lived twenty-five years since and still never felt a thing like it.  We were determined not to give in.  There were so many people then, activists, who hated what was happening, who had been working to prevent the law and were still determined to fight after it passed.”

“What happened to them?” Blaine asked.

Richard’s eyes locked with his.  “They’re all dead, of course.  Some may be hiding.”

Blaine’s fingers involuntarily clenched, trying and failing to get a grip on the quilt beside him.  “Is… is Dianna?”

Richard’s head twitched slowly from side to side as he stared at something invisible on the wall.  “We went to a buddy of mine who was really big in the protest, and he gave us a few names—people who could give us fake papers to show we were already married, or even better, that one of us was a Fab.  Then we were gonna run.”  He shook his head again, this time more adamantly.  “The guy we ended up going with—a random name we chose from the list—he ended up being a plant.  He was one of _them_.”

“He turned you in,” Blaine said, this time with a hint of understanding in his voice.

“Yeah,” his father confirmed.  “They, umm… they separated us, first thing.  I guess to see which one of us would break first.”

For a long moment there was silence.  She stood just outside the door as if frozen, holding her breath.  Richard separated his hands, frantically ran his palms over his thighs.  She watched as his face began to break, as his fists clenched instead and he fought to keep control.

“They started out playing nice, you know?  They were even sympathetic; I guess trying to coax me to see things their way.  But I was young and stubborn.  It kept escalating until… until they threatened to kill her.  So I gave in.  I agreed never to see her again; I swore I’d claim a Fab according to the new law; I even gave up the name of my friend and a few others”—he paused, sucking in a breath.  She could tell his careful composure was wavering—“but then they said that wasn’t enough.”

Blaine swallowed thickly.  “What did they—”

“They told me I’d waited too long to be compliant, and they couldn’t just let me go; they couldn’t just trust me to keep my word.  I asked them if they planned to kill me.  I would have been okay with it, at that point.  I almost wanted it.  But they just laughed.  And then they gave me that card.”

“They forced you to become one of them,” Blaine said. 

Richard nodded.  “Forty people, or twenty couples.  That’s how many I have to turn in before they’ll let her go.”

“You mean they still… they still have her?  But how can you know!?”

“Every year they send me a video.  She’s always sitting in the same cell, each year a little bit older, a little more lifeless.  She’s there, but she’s not really living.  Not anymore.”

“That’s… that’s really twisted,” Blaine said. 

Richard squeezed his eyes shut, nodding faintly, not saying anything. 

It was hard to reconcile the man before her with everything she had known him to be before.  But then, had she ever really known him at all?  She had shared his bed, shared scraps of his life, but she was more certain now than ever that she had never held his heart.

How could she?  How could she compete with a living, breathing person when she herself was only a fanciful shell?  She was what she was made to be: nothing more, nothing less.  No potential.

And he… he had never seemed more distant, more unknown, more vulnerable and human.  She had no way to reach him.  She was cold, empty, unmovable as steel.  If she had once possessed a heart of glass, it had long since shattered.

She watched, transfixed, as he stood, took a step towards the door, and she wanted to stay, move into his arms and let him warm her.

He paused, looking back to Blaine.  Blaine—this beautiful child they had created, who was sweet and kind and full of life, was real, like his father. 

Blaine, who now looked deep in thought, afraid, confused.

“I want you to know that I do love your mother, Blaine,” he said, jarring her from her thoughts.  “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate her.  She’s been a good wife to me, a good mother to you and Cooper.  I couldn’t ask for better.”

She wanted to stay there, let him find her, ask him the million and one questions that were spinning in her mind, most of which quantified to just one: _did he mean it?_

Instead, she slunk off into the shadows.

*******

A few days later, when Kurt came over, she crept back to her son’s room.  The door was closed, but she pressed her ear up close, listened.  There was silence.

She opened the door, slowly, almost afraid of what she’d find.

They were there on the bed; Blaine asleep, curled up impossibly small with Kurt wrapped around him.  Her son’s face was ruddy, his closed eyes puffy, even in slumber.  But he appeared, for the moment, at peace.

Kurt wasn’t sleeping.  He looked up when the door opened, met her eyes, a challenge written in his gaze.  Not unkind, but present.

She looked back to her son, a hint of a smile playing on her face. 

Blaine had always been a bit on the fragile side, a bit toomuch for her liking.  But he had Quinn, who was strong, resilient, just like she had taught her to be.

And now he had this boy, _Kurt_ , who was just the same.

She was a Fab, and a Fab couldn’t expect to be happy.  But Cooper was happy, and Blaine… she had hope that somehow, he might be.

She turned back to Kurt, dipping her chin in acknowledgment.

It was enough.


	14. Carole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - another non-Klaine chapter. But I think you'll find this one is surprisingly heavy on the Klaine!
> 
> This was also probably the hardest chapter for me to write, and the most plot-packed... I hope you like it :-)

_Part Fourteen – 19 – Carole_

_Summer after High School_

Carole had always considered herself more of a practical person than an emotional one.

She had been a bright-eyed girl of fourteen when the fabrication law passed, and in her naiveté, she was an avid supporter.  No longer did she have to worry about finding a suitable boy among her foolhardy peers, about advancing through those early, awkward stages of dating and deciding whether or not to commit.  She wouldn’t need to scope out the perfect partner; she could design one instead.

Her parents were simple, reasonable people who made a decent living.  They never seemed quite as excited about the new law as she was, but they weren’t about to fight it either.  She received permission to obtain a Fab of her own on her sixteenth birthday and studiously spent the next six months determining exactly what she wanted, seeking it out.

She’d done a pretty decent job, looking back.  They’d had eleven good years together before the war started and the army demanded he serve.  When they told her he was dead, she’d been truly distraught… but she pushed it aside, and she moved on.  It didn’t make sense to do anything less.

The army had offered her a replacement Fab free of charge.  As if it were that simple.  It took her seven months to work up to visiting the registry office to enquire about her options, and when she’d gotten there she’d finally lost it on the front lawn, unable to go in.

But then he was there.  Burt.  It was evident he was in a pretty bad place himself.

It made sense, perhaps too much sense.  Her life soon revolved around him and the boys: men, now, all three of them.  And she was happy.  And she wanted them to be happy too.

If only life was that easy.

It had started with Finn. 

Burt…. He was a practical Fab, not unlike herself.  Kurt felt deeply, but he was also an expert at hiding—and often flat-out denying—his emotions.  Finn... Finn was altogether different from the rest of them.  Simple and good and overt and hopeless at learning to be anything else: that was Finn.  He just reacted to things.  He just _was_.

And what he was now—what he had been for the past several months—was despondent and miserable.  If Carole didn’t have better sense, she would slap that melodramatic Rachel girl in the face.

It was but the first of many casualties in the Hudson-Hummel household.  One day Kurt was fine—ecstatic, even, for him—and the next he was withdrawn, barely-there, the only hint of causality a shadow of weariness and anguish in his eyes.

After a few days with no change, she cornered him and tried to make him talk.  He just shook his head, dismissed her, fed her half-truths that she could scent a mile away.

Carole settled for eavesdropping instead, just bits and pieces here and there.  She wasn’t terribly practiced at it, after all.

What she heard was the same conversation, time after time.  The first, lingering near the closed door of Kurt’s bedroom.  When Burt was home it had to be open, but Carole liked to let that rule slide from time to time.  She remembered what it was like to be a teenager in love.

“… if it’s too risky.”  Blaine’s voice was hushed, difficult to make out.  

“I told you you’re worth the risk,” Kurt said, sounding harried and desperate.  “We’re worth the risk to me.”

“I know.  I know, Kurt; it’s not… it’s not that we’re not worth it.  It’s just that we have to be extra-careful: no staying over at each other’s dormitories, no PDA whatsoever, no going out without Finn and Quinn…”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt said.  “We can’t have a real relationship if we never do anything alone.  That’s not a reasonable precaution.”

“We can’t have a relationship at all if the wrong person finds out and they catch us and… Kurt, you don’t understand what they could do to you!  We have to keep ourselves safe.”

“I don’t understand why you’re acting any different!  They say the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know!”

“You weren’t there.  You didn’t see his face.”

“I see yours,” Kurt protested stubbornly.

“And yet you see _nothing_ ,” Blaine countered, his tone almost vicious.  “Kurt, I’m… I’m scared.  Petrified, actually.”

The room fell silent for a long time, too long.  “Maybe we should just call this off,” Kurt said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s not what I want.  I couldn’t bear it.”

“You’re not exactly giving us a better alternative.”

“Because I don’t know what a better alternative _is_ ,” Blaine pleaded.  “Let’s just… we’ll just… we’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t see how,” Kurt said.  “I can’t see how and I _hate_ it and I hate what it’s doing to us and I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Come here,” Blaine said.  “Just, please come here and… and let me hold you.”

“That won’t make anything better.”

“Please, Kurt,” Blaine said, sounding small.

Carole listened for a few moments longer, mind spinning and heart aching, until she heard Kurt’s barely-there echo of, “We’ll figure it out,” and wrenched herself away.

Then, a few days later:

“Dude, Blaine loves you.  No way you’re gonna lose him.  He’s not like, like…”

“Rachel,” Kurt finished.  “You still can’t even say her name.  And you don’t know.  He’s not the same anymore; it’s like he has no… no hope.”

Finn shrugged.  “There’s really not much to hope for…”

“Finn!”

“Sorry, Kurt,” he said sincerely.  “It’s hard to be 100% cool with this stuff, under the circumstances.  I know you don’t see it that way.”

“I don’t want to see it that way,” Kurt countered. 

“I’m sorry,” Finn repeated. 

Hiding just behind the wall that led into the kitchen, Carole saw him open his arms, just a little, in silent invitation.  She saw Kurt move into them, saw his eyes close, and she knew he was trying not to cry.

“Blaine’s scared now, like, really scared.  I’m scared too.  But one of has to be strong, right?  One of us has to fight.  But I… I’m not sure I have any hope left, either.”

Carole stepped forward, allowed Finn to catch her eye over Kurt’s shoulder.  She knew he had no answer.

But maybe Carole did.  Or she could, with a little thought and a lot of risk.  Some things were worth it.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Her family was worth it.

******

It took her several weeks of researching and scheming before she came up with anything halfway-decent, and even then there were many elements of her plan that would require nothing less than a miracle.  She would have preferred to take longer, but the boys were due to leave for college in less than a month.  Time was not a luxury they could afford.

She left them all out of it: Burt and Kurt and Finn.  If something went wrong, they wouldn’t be involved.  They would know nothing.

It was three o’clock on a Wednesday when she rang the doorbell of the Anderson residence, decked out in an outfit that was Kurt-approved for the occasion.  (“That’s very _I-mean-business_ ,” he had remarked during their shopping trip last February.  “No one’s going to mess with you in that.  I like it.”)

The door was opened by a beautiful Eurasian woman who looked to be in her early forties, if that.  Carole didn’t recognize her, but she knew instantly that this was Blaine’s mother. 

“Yes?” the women said, the picture of detached and polite.  “How can I help you?”

“Mrs. Anderson?”  Carole said, just to make sure.  “I’m Carole; your son is friends with my son, Kurt.  I wondered if we might be able to talk?”

Something faded in her, then—a look of tired knowing.  “Yes, yes, of course.  Please come in.”

As she stepped through the doorway, Carole saw that there was a second woman lingering behind Blaine’s mother—this one shorter, much younger, a redhead.  Carole was about to open her mouth to introduce herself, but Mrs. Anderson breezed right past the woman without so much as a glance.  “Right this way,” she said when she caught Carole’s eye.

Carole closed her mouth, nodded to the woman—who didn’t even notice, her face bowed to the floor—and followed after Mrs. Anderson, down the hall and through the dining room to an expansive, lavishly decorated sitting room.  Mrs. Anderson gestured toward the couch with a quiet, “Please,” and muttered something about fetching tea before making to leave the room.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name,” Carole called out, just as she was disappearing through the doorway.

Mrs. Anderson paused.  “It’s Brigitte,” she said hesitantly.  “My husband is quite fond of the French language.”

Carole smiled at her.  “So is Kurt,” she said.  “It’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you,” Brigitte said, and she was gone.

She returned five minutes later carrying a tray laden with a full, porcelain tea set.  She placed it on the coffee table and handed a cup to Carole before seating herself gingerly in the adjacent chair.

“This is lovely,” Carole said, admiring her cup.

“Thank you,” Brigitte said again.  “Tell me: what is your business?”

“This isn’t an easy thing to discuss,” Carole said as kindly as possible, looking Brigitte in the eye.  “How much do you know about Blaine’s relationship with my son?”

Brigitte hesitated, then answered cautiously, “A mother knows everything.”

Carole nodded her understanding.  “The boys seem to really care for each other, and I don’t know how it was with Blaine, but… my husband and I were thrilled to see Kurt so happy.  It hasn’t been an easy road for him.  They want to be together, but they’re scared.  We’re scared.  And I’m not sure they even understand half the repercussions should they get caught…”

“They know,” Brigitte said softly.  “Or rather, Blaine knows.  And I assume he’s shared it with your Kurt.”

“They had a plan mapped out, but now there seems to be some doubt.  I can’t say that I’m entirely ungrateful for it.  Under the circumstances, they _need_ to be careful.  But I don’t want that life for them, and I’m sure you don’t either.”

Brigitte said nothing, staring down into her tea.

“There’s another way,” Carole continued with some trepidation.  “Illegal, of course, and terribly imperfect, but… it might be their best chance.  I have a plan, but I’ll need your husband’s help.”

Brigitte looked at her with vaguely narrowed eyes.  “My husband is not sympathetic,” she warned.  “It would be best not to approach him.”

“It’s not ideal,” Carole said, startled.  “But surely he loves Blaine enough to want to keep him safe?”

Brigitte opened her mouth to retort, but quickly shut it again.  Carole could see her swallowing back the words, gathering herself until her face calmed once more.  “Tell me about this plan of yours.”

“Papers for the boys, for my family.  We get false papers, and we get out of here.  Go somewhere safer.”

“You want to take Blaine away from me,” Brigitte said, and Carole could hear the pain beneath the plainness of her words.

“That’s not what I want at all,” Carole told her.  “And you’re welcome to come with us, of course, but… this is their best chance.  It’s the only way I can see, unless you can think of a better one.”

“The fabrication laws are everywhere.  They’re international now; surely you know that.”

“Yes.  But some places it’s better.”

Brigitte traced the pattern on her teacup with one long, manicured fingernail.  “What kind of papers?” she asked.

“Nothing complicated… false fabrication papers.  And natural papers, if Blaine takes Quinn.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following.”

Carole sighed, anticipating a negative reaction to what she was about to disclose.  But she’d thought this through quite carefully, and she was certain it was their best chance.  “Burt and I would be fine, but we’d need false fabrication papers for Blaine.  The natural papers would be for Quinn, should she decide to go with us.  Finn’s a lovely boy, but he would never pass.”

Brigitte’s face morphed slowly into indignation.  “You want me to help you turn my son into a Fab?!  Why my son?  Why not yours?”

“It doesn’t make sense the other way around,” Carole said calmly.  “Kurt is believable as our son.  He looks somewhat like his father.  They’d never believe that of Blaine.”

Brigitte shook her head.  “That’s not good enough,” she said.  “You want me to risk my son, _my child_ , to potentially ruin his relationship with his father and mine with my husband.  And for what?  To reduce his life to nothing!?”

“It’s not for nothing,” Carole pressed.  “It’s for love.”

Mrs. Anderson was silent for a long moment, seeming to shrink before Carole’s very eyes into someone small and forlorn, resigned to her fate.  Carole wondered if she recognized her own inner strength.

“I want to talk to the boys,” she said at last.  “This has to be their decision—the way that _they_ choose—before it’s taken to my husband.”  She looked up at Carole, met her eyes.  “You must understand what you’re risking.  I do believe he can help, but I’m not sure he’ll be willing to.  And the worst outcome…”

“I’m aware,” Carole said softly. 

Brigitte nodded, and for the first time something passed between them, a sense of connection, of common purpose.

“Come back tomorrow at three, if you’re free?”  Carole nodded.  “Bring Kurt.  We can talk then, before Richard gets home.”

*******

Carole showed up on the Anderson’s doorstep at approximately two fifty-five the following afternoon, with both Kurt and a somewhat befuddled Finn in tow.  “Kurt insisted on bringing him,” Carole explained as they were let into the house.

“Blaine wanted Quinn there as well,” Brigitte said.  “They’re waiting in the sitting room.”

The strange girl from the day before was notably absent today, and Carole made a mental note to ask Kurt about her later.

When they reached the sitting room, everyone exchanged greetings, Blaine and Kurt eyeing each other strangely.  “Goodness gracious,” Carole declared, “we all know everyone here; it’s okay to act familiar with each other!”

Kurt flushed and sat gingerly next to Blaine on the couch, close but not too close, their hands brushing between them.  Brigitte watched them with an unreadable expression on her face, taking one armchair while Carole took the other, Finn eventually seating himself next to Quinn.  When they were all settled, Brigitte looked to Carole, clearly expecting her to start.

“Well, there’s really no good way to begin this,” Carole said.  “I’ve—I’ve been overhearing some of your conversations over the past few weeks… Don’t give me that look, Kurt, we do live in the same house and you boys can be loud… But I know—I’ve overheard—how worried you are about next year.  I know you want to stay together”—she turned to Kurt and Blaine in turn, looking each boy in the eye—“and we all know that won’t be easy.  It may even be stupid.  A small town like this keeps its secrets, but you go to a big city and they’ve got people all over the place…”

Her speech was interrupted by the arrival of the red-headed girl, precariously balancing a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses and finger sandwiches.   She placed them in the center of the coffee table—purposely avoiding everyone’s eyes—then hurried away.

“Thank you, Amalie!” Quinn called after her, watching her go with sad eyes.  Blaine’s were following after her too, almost imperceptibly narrowed.  Brigitte ignored her, while Kurt fixed his eyes at a spot on the floor.  Finn looked confused and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Carole warned him off with one sharp look.

Carole, too, stared until she disappeared, wanting to ask but knowing better.  “I was getting off topic, I apologize,” she said instead.  “What I’m trying to tell you, boys, is that I’ve found a way that you can stay together, feel safer.  It’s not perfect, and there’s still some danger—”

“We don’t mind the risk,” Kurt said hurriedly, taking Blaine’s hand.

Carole looked at them, her eyes filled with sympathy, and smiled sadly.  “There’s a lot of sacrifice involved too.  College, for one.  You won’t be able to go to New York.”

Kurt’s face fell, and he looked to Blaine, who looked back to Carole.  “What’s the plan?” Blaine asked.

“There are underground networks, people who can falsify documentation that’s more or less full-proof.  I’ve researched it.  We could get those papers.  We could all go together, if that’s what you choose.”

“Go where?” Kurt asked softly.

Carole shrugged.  “I haven’t got that part figured out yet, sweetheart.  It may be somewhere else in the United States, or it could be out of the country.  We’d have to build new lives there.”

“When you say false papers…”

“There’s nowhere it’s safe to be with just anyone.  One of you would have to legally become a Fab.”

Kurt inhaled sharply, his knuckles going white where he gripped Blaine’s hand.  “That’s—that’s a lot.”

“I know it is.  That’s why I’m asking you now.  You two have a month before you’re due at college; that gives you a few weeks to think about it.”

Kurt nodded, and after studying his face for a few moments, Blaine did too. 

“She wants you to be the Fab, Blaine,” Brigitte piped up.

“I—”

“And she’s going through your father to do it.”

“Excuse me,” Carole said.  “I’m sitting right here.”

“And leaving out vital information, begging your pardon,” Brigitte said.  Carole couldn’t tell if she was being purposefully vindictive or merely a concerned mother—she knew well how blurred that line could be. “It’s only fair they have all the facts.”

Blaine looked helplessly to Kurt, who turned to Carole with a fierce look of determination.  “If we do this, we will decide who takes which role.  Together.”

Carole sighed but nodded, expecting this.  She could give him her reasons later.

“I don’t think Mr. Anderson will agree,” Quinn said.  “He’s not exactly sympathetic.  I don’t get that impression, anyway.”

“Let me handle Father,” Blaine said to her, then turned back to Carole.  “What about Quinn?  I’m not going anywhere without her.  I could never leave her to the auctions.”

“Quinn could come too, of course.”  She looked over to the girl in question.  “We’d have to make you into a Nat.  You’d be paired with Finn.”

“That’s acceptable,” Quinn said, nodding, directing the words at Blaine.

Kurt let go of Finn’s hand, shifting to look at his Fab.  “Are you okay with all of this?  You can say if you’re not, Finn.”

“I’m fine,” Finn said, “a little confused, but…”  He met Kurt’s eyes.  “I trust you.  And Quinn and I get on well enough.”  He offered the blonde a small smile over Kurt and Blaine’s heads, which she returned.

“Well,” Carole said.  “It seems everything is in order, then.”

“They said they need time to decide,” Brigitte countered.

“Of course they do.  Brigitte… I need you to put in a good word with your husband.”

Brigitte scoffed.  “What is it you think I can do?”

Blaine looked at her, a strange expression on his face.  “I think it’s better for me to do it,” he said softly.

“ _If_ we decide to do it,” Kurt said.

Blaine nodded.  “If anyone can convince him, I think it’s me.”

“But your mother—” Carole began.

“Blaine is right,” Brigitte said, locking gazes with her son.  “He has the best shot.  Far better than I myself.”

For a long moment everyone was silent, seemingly lost to their own thoughts.  Carole shifted uncomfortably in her chair, plagued with doubt for the first time since this started.  Blaine’s family had always been a gray area in her plan, but she hadn’t anticipated her own son’s hesitation at all.

“Are these for us?” Finn’s voice broke the quiet.  He was gesturing towards the sandwiches.

“Yes, yes, of course.  Help yourself, dear,” Brigitte answered.

They all lingered, eating and drinking and barely talking.  The food churned unpleasantly in Carole’s stomach.  She’d always been a practical person, had always trusted that her head knew better than her heart.

So why did this suddenly feel so dreadfully wrong?

*******

“Burt,” she said that night, turning towards him in their bed, her hand finding his under the covers.  It had been a difficult evening, full of more long, awkward silences, peppered with scowls and glares from Kurt.  It was nice to be here now, warm with her husband in bed.  Safe.  “Have I done something terribly wrong?”

Burt chuckled.  “It’d be nearly impossible for a woman as good as you to do something terrible.”

Carole slapped at his chest, fighting the smile that threatened to appear on her face.  Burt was truly incorrigible; it was one of the things she both hated and loved the most about the man.  “Kurt is angry with me,” she told him.

“Yeah,” Burt said.  “I kind of figured that.”

She gave him an exasperated look she was well aware he couldn’t make out in the darkness, then groaned when he didn’t seem to get it, burying her face in the crook of his neck.  “Please explain him to me,” she begged. 

It was something she’d asked of him often over the years, although most times he countered that Kurt was as much of a mystery to him as he was to everyone else.  _He gets that from his mother_ , he’d say wistfully.

This time, thankfully, he actually had an answer.  “Kid’s mad that you got the whole thing figured out for him.  He never has liked being told what to do.  Has to march to his own drum, that one.”

“But I told him they could have time to think about it!” Carole said, perplexed and more than a little frustrated.  “Nothing’s been done yet.  They don’t have to agree.”

“And what’ll you do if they don’t, Carole?  Or if they don’t want to go about things just the way you planned?”

She was silent for a long moment, struggling to come up with an answer.

“I can hear you thinking,” Burt said.  “You always expected them to go along.”

“Don’t you want that?” Carole asked, wishing she could see more than a faint outline of his face.

Burt sighed.  “I want them to be happy,” he said heavily.  “I want this world to be a better place.  Your plan is good, honey… but only they can decide what’s best for them.  They’re adults now.”

She smiled, even as she felt tears prickling at her eyes.  “How did I get myself such a wise Fab?”

“Oh come on now, you know I wasn’t made for smarts.  And if I recall, you showed up at my door one morning and declared that I was yours.”

“Kurt was so little then,” she said fondly, “working through that huge stack of pancakes.  When did he grow up?”

“He’s been growing for a while now,” Burt said.  “Maybe you forgot to notice.”

Carole nodded, the knowledge stinging her heart.  “I don’t want to lose them,” she confessed.

“Of course not,” Burt said.  “That’s part of your plan.”

“Is it part of theirs?”

Burt pressed his lips against her forehead—the only answer he had to offer.

It was a long while before she drifted off to sleep.

*******

Kurt maintained his polite distance from her over the next several days, and Carole did her best to be respectful and give him space.  She was constantly biting back the urge to plead with him, list all her reasons and convince him to make the choice she thought was best.  It helped that Burt would sometimes notice her restraint, give her a small smile of approval.

Then, almost a week later, he approached her, dressed in his _I Love Lucy_ pajamas and a worn bathrobe that Carole knew had once belonged to his mother.  He took a careful seat across from where she sat, drinking her early-morning coffee, which she was accustomed to doing alone.

“You’re up early,” she noted softly.

Kurt nodded.  “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.  There’s a lot to think about.”  He paused, looking at her pointedly, and said, “Blaine and I have come to a decision.”

“Oh?” She tried not to sound too invested.

“We’ve decided that your plan is worth the risk.  But we have some conditions.”  He took a deep breath.  “First, we want to make sure we can still get an education.  Both of us.  So we want to relocate somewhere with a good school for performing arts that will permit Blaine to take classes too.”

“Blaine will be the Fab?” she asked.

Kurt nodded again, more solemnly.  “We don’t… we don’t like it.  Or I don’t.  He seems not to mind so much.  But I want you to know that we didn’t make that decision because it’s what you wanted, and it wasn’t an easy one to make.”

She was tempted to ask him for his reasons, but she knew it wasn’t worth it.  They were adults, and their reasons were their own.  She could accept that.  If they were all to continue living together for the foreseeable future, the dynamic of their relationship would have to change.  “I’m glad you were able to reach an agreement.  Quinn will be coming too?”  Quinn had to come, really, or there would be no place for Finn, and that simply wasn’t an option.

“She will,” Kurt said.  “That’s the part Blaine’s most pleased with, I suspect.  Quinn is brilliant.  Just knowing there’s a way that she’ll have a chance… well, it means a lot to him.”

“I know there’s going to be some sacrifice.  A lot of sacrifice, Kurt, but… you have to focus on the positive.  How much you’ll gain if this all works.”

“If,” Kurt said.  “If it works.”

“If,” Carole agreed.  “When is Blaine…?”

“Tomorrow before dinner, I think.  If his courage doesn’t fail him.”

“It won’t,” Carole said.  “Blaine is a fine young man, Kurt.  I can see why you love him.”

He stood, briefly squeezing her hand where it rested on the table before he went about fixing himself a cup a coffee.

Carole took a long drag from her own: now a bit cold, but a comfort all the same.

Maybe not so terrible, after all.

She hoped.

*******

The following evening at around seven, there was a faint knocking at the door, followed by the chime of the bell.  Kurt and Finn were clearing the dinner dishes from the table and startled at the sound.  Carole smiled at Kurt knowingly.  “Go ahead and get it,” she told him.  “Just be careful, in case it’s not who we think it is.”  She winked.

Kurt nodded but moved sluggishly, looking more than a little anxious.  He’d been tense all evening, waiting to hear the news. 

“It’ll be okay,” Finn told him.  “Courage, right?”

Kurt half-smiled at him and dumped the dishes he was carrying in the sink, finally meandering across the dining room to the entryway.  Carole stood in the doorway, watching him, Finn peering over her shoulder.  The knocking continued.

Kurt answered the door, and Blaine entered, surprisingly silent and somber.

“What happened?” Kurt asked.  “Did you—”

Blaine thrust a small piece of paper into his hand.

“What’s this?” Kurt’s brow furrowed in confusion, his body almost imperceptibly trembling with nerves.

Blaine’s face bloomed slowly into a smile.  “A number.  The phone number of somebody who can get us what we need.”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt said.

They watched as he seemed to crumple against Blaine’s body, his arms twined around Blaine’s neck, their foreheads pressed together.  Blaine’s arms came up to wrap firm around Kurt’s back, and they appeared to be whispering to each other, though Carole couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

Finn stepped around her as if to approach them, but Carole put her arm up for him to stop.  “Wait,” she said.  “Give them a moment.  Better yet, go get Burt.  He’ll want to know.”

After Finn had slipped away—presumably to their attached garage, which functioned more or less as a smaller version of Burt’s repair shop—Carole crept closer, the boys either oblivious to her presence or choosing to ignore it.

“You can still change your mind,” Kurt was saying.  “I want you to be sure.  I _need_ you to be sure.”

“Kurt, I told you.  I made up my mind.  Nothing’s more important to me than you.  And Quinn, getting the chance to live her dreams… I never thought that was something I could give her.”

“At the cost of your own,” Kurt said dejectedly.

“ _You_ are my dream,” Blaine stressed, and Carole had a feeling it wasn’t for the first time.  “We’ll figure the rest of it out.”

What must it be like, to be so young and idealistic, to love so purely and with such single-hearted purpose?  _Foolhardy_ , Carole’s mind supplied.  But she was older now, a bit more weathered, and she could choose to ignore it.  Something deeper within her warmed with affection.

Maybe she was wrong; maybe they would crash and burn and live the rest of their lives in regret.  Maybe she would come to regret her role in it.  But if there was one thing life had taught Carole above all else, it was to live in the moment.

This moment was worth the risk.

“I want you to always remember,” Kurt was saying, his voice strong, insistent and sure, “that you are worth far more than a piece of paper says you are.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Blaine responded.  He was smiling, his eyes blinking furiously as if fighting tears.  “I’ll have you to remind me.”

She watched Kurt kiss him then turned away, retreating to the kitchen and the dishes awaiting her in the sink.  There was much to discuss, much to do… but there would be many other moments for that.

*******

Seventy-two hours later, they had the papers they needed.  Twenty-four hours after that, the house had been cleared of everything they truly valued, and it was all loaded into two newly-acquired vehicles: an old but sturdy pick-up truck and a roomy van, both affixed with fake license plates.

They told no one outside of Blaine’s family save for Mercedes.  She stood in the doorway of their vacant house, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and waved as they drove away.

 


	15. Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who took this (slow, torturous) incredible journey with me! I know this story is very different than some of the others I have written, but it holds a very special place in my heart.
> 
> This final chapter is more of an epilogue-in-pieces of sorts. The ending opens the door to a lot of continued uncertainty and trial, but I think you'll find that it's a happy, hopeful one nevertheless. I'd love to hear your thoughts and answer any questions you have! <3

_Part Fifteen – 21 – Kurt_

It was Thursday, so Kurt’s alarm didn’t go off until seven-thirty.  A blessing, considering that three days a week he had a seven am class.  _Seven A-M._   No one could convince him that wasn’t the work of a sadist.

He sighed, turned himself under the weight of Blaine’s body to hug him close, bury his face in the warm crook of his neck.  No matter what time it was, he never _wanted_ to get up.  But after a few more moments of basking, he did.

Twenty minutes of yoga, shower, bagel, dressed.

Kurt checked and double-checked his hair in the mirror.  Even if his job at the costume shop was relatively low-profile (and would have to stay that way, unfortunately, for the sake of his family’s safety), he still endeavored to always look his best.  Good impressions were everything, especially in the world of fashion.

He ducked back into the bedroom.  Nearly nine-o’clock and Blaine was still fast asleep, sprawled out on his stomach and shirtless and hugging Kurt’s pillow.  Kurt smiled, bent over him to kiss his shoulder, then the corner of his mouth, and Blaine murmured groggily, “Have a nice day.”

“You too, sweetheart,” Kurt whispered.

Every day, every moment was a gift that filled his heart to bursting.

As he passed through the living room he noticed Quinn standing there, already dressed, staring out the window.

“Looking at something good?” he asked, coming up behind her.

She didn’t bother turning to consider him.  “Maybe,” she said.

He peered out the window, trying to follow the direction of her eyes.  Across the street was a moving truck, and alongside several chunky older men in uniforms, a lanky teen with long, messy dreadlocks was unloading boxes and pieces of furniture. 

*******

Finn and Burt were working late at the shop that night, and Carole wouldn’t be home at all because of her shift at the hospital.  It was Kurt who made dinner for the five of them, setting something aside for Carole to eat when she got off at midnight.  It made his day a little hectic since he only had an hour between work and dinner to cook, another hour to eat and then it was off to his evening class.  But he made it work.  They made it work.

Kurt, Blaine, and Quinn were halfway through their meal when Finn and Burt came home, up to their elbows in grease.  “Bathroom,” Kurt said in his best no-nonsense voice, pointing down the hall with his fork for emphasis.  “But be sure you take your shoes off first!”

They were on dessert by the time his father and brother (and wasn’t that still a strange way to think of Finn?) were settled at the table.  “Sorry,” Finn offered.  “We had a few late customers.”

“Can’t afford to turn ‘em down when you’re just starting,” Burt added.

Kurt shrugged as Blaine said, “It’s cool.”

“You kids ready for class tonight?” Burt asked, looking pointedly at the three of them each in turn. 

They all nodded, Blaine with a little extra enthusiasm.  He was lucky to be part of such an advanced Fab’s program.  Some of Kurt’s classes were open to him, _and_ he had the opportunity to earn a Fine Arts certificate. 

He shouldn’t have to settle for that, but he didn’t mind.  Blaine didn’t mind any of it; not his abrupt fall in social and political status nor his substantially reduced educational and career opportunities.  He didn’t mind the way people so often snubbed him in public, the way he was treated and seen as Kurt’s property.

_“I don’t mind, Kurt, really.”_

Kurt minded.  He kind of wanted to slap Blaine every time he said he didn’t, which was mostly every day.

He used to torture himself wondering if Blaine was really happy like this, if Blaine could ever possibly be happy like this, if he shouldn’t hate himself for even permitting the opportunity for Blaine to make this kind of sacrifice.  But Quinn was happy—she had her third political science class tonight—and Kurt was (mostly) happy, so Kurt begrudging had to conclude that in Blaine’s world, that translated to Blaine being happy too.

Kurt _still_ tortured himself wondering if he would have made the same choice, if it had come down to his independence or Blaine.  He didn’t understand Blaine, how Blaine was so content with simple things, so selfless, so easily satisfied with pleasing others.  Understanding another person was hard, even and especially another person you intend to spend your life with.  But Kurt was trying.

It was working out pretty well so far.

It helped that they weren’t alone, that they were six instead of two.  He was nineteen; he shouldn’t need his father, and maybe he didn’t need him, but it was good to have him here.  To have them all here, to have a family that was determined to stick together.

It helped with the fear.

*******

Two years after Rachel walked away Finn seemed genuinely happy, but he was still alone.  Kurt kept watching for signs that something was developing between him and Quinn, but although he got that dopey _wow that’s a pretty girl_ look on his face from time to time when they were together, nothing ever really happened.  Maybe it was Quinn, that Quinn wanted somebody different (smarter) than Finn.  That thought made Kurt more than a little bit angry, so he tried not to dwell on it.

Maybe Finn was still in love with Rachel.  Kurt tried not to think about Rachel, because every time he did he still wanted to slap her.  Kurt tried not to think about Finn very much at all, because when he did he felt guilty, even guiltier than he felt about Blaine.  A slow-dawning guilt that bloomed with the ticking seconds of age and maturity.

When he thought of Finn now, he realized: Finn was the only one of them who hadn’t really gotten anything out of this.  His whole life changed, uprooted, and he was just following along after Kurt, after their family, as steady and unchanging as the oak tree that grew, solid and towering, in their new backyard.

Finn who came home from working at the shop, smiling and sweaty, and cleaned up because Kurt made him clean up and he always listened to Kurt.  Finn who loved to eat more than he loved almost anything else.  Finn who was fiercely protective, fiercely loyal, never complained or asked for anything more from life than what it offered him.  Finn who seemed to sense it when Kurt couldn’t sleep and met him in the kitchen to share mugs of warmed milk; Finn who seemed to know when Kurt was sad and watched _Moulin Rouge_ with him—even though he didn’t get it—until Blaine showed up.

Today Finn came home from the shop, smiling and sweaty, and started into the kitchen until Kurt gave him The Look, and he backed up, tugged off his boots, began to tiptoe in his holey socks to the bathroom.

Kurt was suddenly, breathlessly _grateful_ for him.

“Finn,” Kurt said, stopping him in his tracks.  “You know you’re… you’re so much more than the statue I chose from a lineup that day.  You’re more than the form I filled out to order you, or the one I signed when they brought you to my door.”  His words were choked, hurried, because he _needed_ to say them.  He’d spent so much energy over the past two years reassuring Blaine, who seemingly needed no reassurance.  But he had never said this, not once in the past eight years.  Not to Finn, who perhaps needed to hear it the most.  “You’re so much more than what they see in you, how they treat you.  I should have told you that a long time ago.”

Finn stared at him, his face as open as ever, his eyes unfathomable.  He stepped forward, pressed a lingering kiss to Kurt’s forehead, tugged Kurt up against his chest, wrapping him in strong arms.  “You never had to say it,” he said.

Kurt _loved_ Finn, and he would tell him every day… every day until Finn finally, hopefully, found the person he belonged with like he’d never quite belonged with Kurt.

*******

Blaine was working on Kurt’s only day off and so were all the others, so it was just he and Quinn at home, and Quinn wanted to make cookies.

It was a suspicious request from the start, but Kurt loved to bake and so he played along.  They made several dozen—chocolate chip and snickerdoodle and cranberry-oatmeal.  “What on earth are you going to do with all of these?” Kurt finally asked her.  “Even Finn can’t—”

“They’re not for Finn.  Well, not mostly.”  She set a few aside—“Three for Finn, two for Blaine, and one each for the rest of us”—and packed the rest into one of their nicer tins.  She straightened her dress, ducked into the bathroom to touch up her hair and lipstick, then marched them out of the house and across the street, ringing their new neighbor’s doorbell.

Sure enough, Dreadlocks answered.  “Hello,” he said, drawn out and a bit surprised.

“Hi!” Quinn replied brightly, flashing him her prettiest smile.  “I’m Quinn, and this is my brother, Kurt.  We’re your neighbors from across the street.  Cookies?”  She held up the tin in offering.

Dreadlocks’ eyes widened, and he smiled back at her, took the tin.  “Wow, thank you,” he said.  “My name’s Joe.  You guys can come in, if you like.  Share these with me?”

Kurt was about to make up a polite excuse when Quinn nodded.  “That would be lovely, thank you,” she said, and followed him inside.

Joe chattered as he led them through the house.  “Dude, you don’t know how awesome it is to finally be somewhere that’s warm!  Before we lived up in Washington, and I hate wearing shoes so my feet were always cold.”  He paused in the middle of the hallway, wiggling his toes, then continued until they wound up in what looked to be the kitchen.  Joe cleared a spot on the junk-cluttered round table off to one side of the room, placed the tin of cookies there, and gestured for them to sit.  Quinn sat.  Kurt, glaring at the side of her head, followed suit.

“My parents are out right now setting up Mom’s new office,” Joe continued.  “I’m sorry if you were hoping to meet them.”

Quinn placed her chin in her hands, smiling at him coyly.  “To be honest, I was more interested in their son.”

Joe blushed, looking back down at his feet.  Kurt rolled his eyes.  “He probably has a Fab somewhere, Quinn.  Or he _is_ a Fab.”  He looked at Joe in question.

“Actually, um… I’m a reject.”

“Oh,” Kurt said.

“Oh?” Quinn echoed.

“Yeah.  I was born with this weird condition where my legs weren’t quite shaped right.  It’s stupid because my parents paid to fix it, and I’m pretty much fine now, as you can see, but yeah.  Reject.  Exception to the law.”

“Isn’t that hard?” Kurt asked.  “Knowing you’ll never be matched?”

Joe grinned at him.  “No, dude, it’s totally rad!  I’ve devoted myself to Jesus.”

“How interesting,” Quinn said, voice dripping with sweetness.  “I’m sure that’s a very fulfilling choice for you.”

Kurt frowned.  “Do you mind telling me your opinion on Fabs, then?” he asked coldly.  Christians were few and far between now, so much so that Kurt had never actually met one before, but he knew what everyone knew about them.  They had been some of the largest protestors of the fabrications laws, but they were also some of the largest protestors of Fabs altogether, believing they were an abomination as only God was meant to create.  They were tolerated only marginally by the government these days.

“Kurt!” Quinn scolded.

Joe looked taken aback, but he soon recovered, finally pulling out a chair and joining them at the table.  “Sure, no, that’s a fair question.”  He paused, looking directly into Kurt’s eyes.  “I think it’s all about the golden rule.  Treat others as you would like to be treated, you know?  Whether Fabs are ‘real people’ or not shouldn’t even be a consideration.  They do everything that we do, they feel everything like we do, so we should treat them with equal amounts of love and respect.  God loves everyone, dude.”

Quinn stared at him with a new degree of admiration.  “You should come over to our house sometime,” she suggested.  “I think our parents would like you.” 

She looked to Kurt, _finally_.  “I think they would,” he begrudgingly agreed.

“I would love that,” Joe told her.  “Thank you.”  He opened the tin and took out a cookie, actually moaning when he bit into it.  “These are amazing,” he said, directing the compliment at Quinn.

She smiled—as if she’d ever stopped smiling.  “Oh, they’re just a little something I whipped up.  You come over, and I’ll make them for you again.”

Their eyes locked.  Kurt began to mentally count the seconds that they held each other’s gaze, but he eventually gave up.  He sat back, crossed his arms, and deliberately did not huff. 

This was going to be painful, he could already tell.  It was going to be trouble.  But if everything somehow, magically worked out, then Quinn would be happy, and Blaine would be happy, and that would make Kurt happy, too.

*******

It was nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night.  Outside a winter storm raged, but in their cozy living room the six members of the Hudson household sat on the floor by the fire, finishing up a post-dinner game of Monopoly.

The doorbell rang, and everyone froze.

Kurt clutched too-tight to Blaine’s hand, knuckles white and heart pounding.  Quinn’s jaw set, her body beginning to quiver until Finn put an arm around her, shushing into her ear, his own expression one of alarm.  Burt and Carole exchanged a look, and slowly Kurt’s father rose to his feet.

Nobody said a word.  Nobody needed to.  They all knew that a visitor this late, on a night like this, could only mean one thing.

Carole was the first to rise and doggedly follow Burt to the door, but the rest soon mirrored her actions.  When Kurt moved to pull his hand from Blaine’s, Blaine wouldn’t let him.  Instead he tugged him close, whispered a hoarse _I love you_ into his ear.  Kurt squeezed his fingers, swallowed thickly and nodded, too rooted with terror to speak.

They all crowded into the small foyer, Burt’s hand on the knob.

The doorbell rang a second time.

Burt took a deep breath and slowly turned his hand, pulling at the door until it begrudgingly swung open.

On the stoop stood a girl, dark hair damp and windblown and littered with snow, huddled in on herself so that she appeared even tinier than her actual stature.

“Rachel!” Kurt exclaimed in a breath, the first to find his voice.

With a cry she tore through the short distance into the house, throwing herself against Finn’s body.  His arms closed around her, engulfing her, holding her tightly to him, shock and pure joy evident on his face as he bent to place a kiss on her clammy brow.

“I’m sorry,” she said, words muffled and heavy with relief.  “I wanted to come home.”

“You’re staying?” Finn asked.  “Please, please tell me you’re staying.”

She stared at him, glanced around at all of them sheepishly.  “If you’ll have me,” she said.

Kurt rolled his eyes, because _of course_ Finn would have her.  As for the rest of them, they’d muddle through it and figure it out.  He wanted to hold on to his anger, to his hatred, but all of that paled in comparison to the smile on Finn’s face.

… And Blaine’s as well, the romantic, idealistic dope.

“I guess this means I have to forgive you now,” he said begrudgingly.

She turned in Finn’s arms to look at him, offering a small, tentative smile.  _“Kurt,”_ she said.  “I would appreciate it.”

He nodded, and somebody—Quinn—finally had the good sense to close the damn door.  Carole went off to fetch Rachel a towel, and the rest of them headed back to the living room and the warmth of the fire.

As they settled in, Kurt looked around at each of their faces, glowing in the firelight, and saw his family.  The danger was still there, still real, perhaps even greater now that Rachel had joined them.  But surrounding him was nearly every person he’d ever truly loved, all here, together, a part of his life for the foreseeable future.  All part of a life they’d somehow managed to fabricate.

He felt Blaine’s hand slip into his, felt his gaze, knowing, as he watched him.  They shared a smile.  Blaine lay his head on Kurt’s shoulder, and they went back to their game.


End file.
